
aassJ2AJi-4_t 

Book_- lA=— 




JWv^.Auolcu JvL.piWo^cl. 



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THE 



BROKEN VOW. 



OTHER POEMS. 



AMANDA M. EDMOND 



speaJc no ill of poetry. 
For 'tis a holy thing, — Mes. Sig' 



BOSTON: 
GOULD, KENDALL & LINCOLN, 

59 WASHINGTON STREET. 

1845. 

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1815, 

By JAMES EDMOND, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



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TO 

MY VENERABLE GRANDFATHER, 
DBA. ELUAH COREY, 

THESE POEMS AKE AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED, 

BY 

HIS GKANDDATIGHTEK. 



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PREFACE. 



A POETICAL contribution offered to the pubKc, presupposes 
in the author the existence of the true spirit of song. A perusal 
of these Poems best can decide whether this be the case in the 
present mstance ; they are presented with the hope that, though 
faulty, they may win some expressions of favorable regard. 
Critical severity may find much to condemn ; but if the little 
good that remains should touch kindred chords of sympathy in 
any breast, and enkindle a taste for true poesy, I shaU feel that 
not vainly my hai-p has been Strang. From childhood I have cul- 
tivated a friendship with the Muses ; their society has beguiled 
me of many an hour of pain and weariness, and I have loved to 
express the feehngs of my heart in numbers of song. 

The sacred Poems inserted here I esteem above the others, 
and should they be the means, through the Divine blessing, of 
elevating the heart and directing the thoughts to the con- 
templation of pure and holy themes, sweet indeed will be the 
reward of 

THE AUTHOR. 



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The spell of song is on me, and the lyre 
The heart's own music pours, but not to thee, 
O earthly Tame, shall the glad offering be, — 

Higher than this my spirit shall aspire, 

For O ! what art thou but a fleeting breath 

Bought by a weary life or early death ! 

Sweeter to me the thought, in after days. 
Cherished in loving hearts my name shall live, 

Than blazoned on thy rolls, a theme of praise 
'Mong those who oft but hollow flattery give. 

Therefore these powers of mine thou shalt not claim, 
Tor I win lay them on a hoUer shrine. 

Whose sacred fires burn with celestial flame, — 

Father in heaven ! on thine, and only ihi'm ! 



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LIST OE PLATES. 



POKTKAIT OF THE AUTHOE, 

CUPIDS MOUEOTNG OVEE A BEOKEN LYEE, 71 

ABBOTSFOED, 112. 

MOOISTLIGHT SCEKE, 150 

MELEOSE ABBEY, 192 

GEACE DAELING, 255 



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CONTENTS. 



RODOLPHO, OK THE BrOKEN YoW, 13 

Spring, 39 

Wandering Thoughts, 42 

Sunset at Sea, 45 

When is the Time to Die, 47 

Bright Fancy, spread thy Pinions wide, 49 

The three Dreams, 53 

God giveth us this glorious World, 55 

Music, 57 

The Water Lily, 60 

April, 61 

TfiEY SHALL PERISH, BUT ThOU SHALT ENDURE, 64 

These are they who came out of great Tribula- 
tion, 66 

The Sunlight of Home, 69 

Stanzas to the Memory op Margaret M. David- 
son, 71 

Pray, Mariner, Pray, 76 

The Grapes and the Stream, 78 

Dark, gloomy Thoughts steal o'er my Soul, 80 

Assurance, 82 

To the Spirit of Song, 84 

Lines written on revisiting a favorite Hill,- • • • 87 

To A Dove, 90 

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CONTENTS 



I WILL GiTE Myself unto Prater, 93 

The Greenwood Depths, 95 

A Tribute to mt Father, 97 

What shall separate the Disciple of Christ from 

HIS Love ? 106 

Grave of an Indian Chief, 108 

Abbotsford, 112 

Sing not to Me that Song again, 115 

June, 118 

The Ruins of Craigmillar Castle. Scotland, 121 

Semper Eadem, 123 

Nine o'clock, 125 

To a Blighted Oak, 128 

The World of the Real, 131 

The Minstrel and the Warrior, 133 

The Slave's Dream, 136 

Prater at Sea during a Violent Storm, 143 

Death of a Missionart, 145 

Childhood's Sleep, 148 

To the Moon, 150 

I could not die remote from Home, 153 

SuMus Anim^ — We are Spirits, 156 

A WOUNDED Spirit, who can bear ? 158 

Stanzas written on being prevented bt Illness 

from attending upon Public Worship, 160 

To Miss E. A. W., 162 

The Young Swiss Minstrel, 164 

Friendship, 169 

My Brother on the Sea, 170 

First Affection, 172 

Marriage Htmn, 176 

Prayer for the Absent, 178 

The Dead, 180 

Stanzas, written on board the Steamer Britan- 
nia, June 12, 1844, 182 



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CONTENTS. Xi 



"We 'vb conquered America, 184 

Illi, Cui Carmina Applicent, 187 

Sonnet — The "Wind, 191 

Melrose Abbey, 192 

Lines written in a Lady's Album, 194 

David's Lamentation for Saul and Jonathan, • • • • 196 

The Painter and the Dead, 199 

I AM PASSING BY WHERE THE "WiLD FlOWERS BLOOM, 203 

The Departure of Summer, 206 

Eembmber now thy Creator, 210 

Christian Hope, 212 

Christian Triumph, 215 

To , 217 

Death, 220 

The Burial of Thomas Campbell, in "Westminster 

Abbey, 223 

The Soul, 225 

To MY Mother, 228 

The Absent, ^ 231 

The Angel's Visit, 234 

Flowers in "Winter, 237 

The Snow — Written during a Storm, 239 

The Pirate to his Bark, 241 

Washing Day, 244 

The Slave Ship, 247 

The Prophetic Bark, 249 

Written on viewing the Portrait of Eev. J. 

P E, D. D., 251 

The Cross op Christ, 253 

Grace Darling, 255 

A Nameless Grave, 260 

Voice op the Autumn Wind, 262 

The Moon, 264 

Return to my Bosom, 265 

Tempus Fugit, 267 

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CONTENTS 



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Meeting or Friends, 269 

Sonnet, 271 

The Dkbam of the Dying Poet, 272 

To THE Memory of a beloved Father, 274 

Christ is left, 276 

For here we have no continuing City, 278 

The Setting Sun, 281 

Loch Leven Castle, 283 

Christ is precious, 285 

I AM THE Lord that healeth Thee, 287 

The Eighteous Dead, ■ 289 

Music op the Sea, 290 

Stanzas, 291 

Lines written on leaving Europe, 292 

M. S. L., 295 

The Meadow Spring, 298 

The Widow's Son restored, 300 

The Reply op Euth to Naomi, 307 

If a Man Die, shall he Live again, 310 

Our Earthly House, 312 

Ls^VOCATION, 315 

Affliction Sanctified, 317 

The Ajsgels, • 320 




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THE BROKEN VOW 

AND OTHER POEMS. 



EODOLPHO: OE, THE BROKEN VOW. 



PART I. 

RoDOLPHo "vvas a shepherd's son, 
He chmbed the mountain steep, 

When morning dawned, or day was done, 
To tend his father's sheep. 

To honor Rodolph's soul aspired, 

For wealth his spirit burned ; 
Of bleating flocks and toil he tired, 

A shepherd's life he spurned. 

He mused in many a secret grot 

The rugged cliffs supplied. 
And loathed and cursed his cruel lot. 

For fame and grandeur sighed. 

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14 POEMS. 

His father's form was bowed with age, 

His locks were thin and gray ; 
In toil no more could he engage, 

Or tread the mountain way. 

His feeble hands could slay no more 

The beasts that wildly run, — 
He sat beside his cottage door, 

And slumbered in the sua. 

The old man's wife was dead and gone, 

He laid her in the ground, 
And clasping vine aiid sheltering thorn 

He planted on her mound. 

His httle daughter Alphonsine 

Supplied her mother's j)lace ; 
A lovelier child than she, I ween. 

Did never cottage grace. 

His comfort e'er her sole desire, 

She sought no childish play ; 
Like some sweet angel round her sire. 

She hovered night and day. 

'Twas on a cold and gloomy morn. 

The coldest of the year, 
"Wlaen Rodolph climbed at early dawn 

The mountain steep and drear. 

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POEMS. 15 

December's keen and cutting gale 

Blew harsh on hill and moor, 
December's rude and rattling hail 

Iced all the country o'er. 

Along the mountain fiercely cold 

The sturdy shepherd passed, 
And gave his bleating charge a fold 

To screen them from the blast. 

A spacious cave he chanced to see, 
And entered there to roam ; 
' Hard is the life I lead,' said he, 
' I scorn my humble home. 

' O, had I gold, then would I live 
As men should live below ; 
I'd take the gift, should demons give, 
Or fiends the boon bestow. 

' I curse the day that gave me birth, 
And made me thus a slave ; 
By all the saints, I wish the earth 
Would take the dust she gave.' 

Erect he raised his stalwart form, 

His hands extended wide ; 
His impious voice above the storm 

Arose, high heaven to chide. 

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16 POEMS. 

But, hark! he heard a sudden sound, 

Far in the cavern dim ; 
An old man left its depths profound, 

And swift drew nigh to him. 

No mortal face the old man bore, 

His was no mortal tone ; 
A signet on his brow he wore, 

Of race and world iniknown. 

A snowy beard fell down below, 

And hid his shrivelled Avaist ; 
His sable garments' mournful flow, 

A leathern girdle braced. 

The voice of that wild withered seer 

Was like a funeral knell. 
As thus on E-odolph's wondering ear 

Its thrilling music fell. 

' Thy wish I long have knoAvn, rash boy ! 
It shall be granted now ; 
And filled shall be thy cup of joy, 
Wilt thou but take a vow. 

' But, first, to give thee gold, thy sire 
His aged life must yield ! 
What else shall spring from thy desire, 
Shall shortly be revealed. 

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POEMS. 17 

' Say, art thou willing he should die ? 
Few years has he to live ; 
Think of thy wants gold will supply, 
Of bliss that gold will give.' 

Rodolpho listened as he spoke, 

And shuddered deep awhile ; 
But, O ! at last there o'er him broke 

A fiend-assenting smile. 

The tempter saw his words prevail, 

And boldly answered, ' Now 
Of endless wealth thou shalt not fail, 

And this shall be thy vow : — 

' That from a drainless golden mine, 
But once each rolling day, 
A portion thou shalt take as thine. 
And bear it thence away. 

* But, should' St thou twice the cofiers seek, 
Twice on the self-same day, 
I will upon thee vengeance wreak, 
This forfeit thou shalt pay. 

' Thy Alphonsine, a maiden fair. 
The fairest 'neath the heaven, 
Thy sister, thou shalt thither bear. 
And she to me be given. 

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' But should'st thou thrice a portion take, 
Ere Sol shall westward roU, 
Thee, goblins shall their victim make, 
And fiends torment thy soul. 

' Or, should'st thou e'er to men reveal 
The secret thou shalt bear, 
My king's fierce judgments thou shalt feel 
In endless, dread despair.' 

Again that smile of strange delight, 

Eodolpho's face defiled. 
As lightning, mid the gloom of night, 

Plays round a mountain wild. 

The fiend prevailed ; Rodolpho cried, 
' May'st thou bear witness now. 
May heaven and earth attest beside, 
I stvear to keep the voiv ! 

' If false, heaven's wrath shall o'er me roU, 
My frame in vengeance blast, 
And demons shall my perjured soul 
To endless torments cast.' 

Tlie old man drew a massive key 

From out his sable vest, 
And gave the youth ; ' Enough,' said he, 

' Be of thy wish possessed.' 

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POEMS. 19 

He spake, and, lo ! the arches damp, 

Within that gloomy cave, 
Were ht -with many a massive lamp, 

That awful radiance gave. 

A lock upon the rugged side 

Of one low arch reposed, 
The key appUed, a door flew wide. 

And shining gold disclosed. 

The youth to seize the prize began, 

And viewed his portion o'er, 
Then turned to thank the aged man. 

But saw his face no more. • 

And soon he sought his father's cot, 

Still musing on the gold ; 
The father's fate the cliild forgot, 

But quickly was it told. 

His sire, upon the cottage floor, 

A lifeless body lay ; 
A livid hue his features "wore. 

Cold was his breatUess clay. 

And Alphonsine, his darling child. 

Chafed tenderly his brow ; 
Then Rodolph shook, his eye was wild. 

He thought upon the vow ! 

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20 POEMS. 

' He Avill not wake ! ' the weeping girl 
Exclaimed, in deep despair; 
She kissed liis Hps, her auburn curls 
Swept o'er his hoary hair. 

' I went for water to the spring, 
And swift my footsteps sped, 
But when I came the cup to bring 
My father he was dead ! ' 

The child ne'er ceased to moan and weep 

Till grief e'en sank to rest, 
And she had •wept herself to sleep 

Upon her father's breast. 

Rodolpho shuddered at the sight, 

But 'mid the evening gloom, 
Far on the dusky mountain's height, 

He sought his sire a tomb. 

And staggering 'neath the weight, he bore 

His awful burden there ; 
The dull eyes of the dead man wore 

A stern, reproachful glare. 

"With trembling steps he left the spot. 

And vainly sought repose ; 
His father's image left him not 

Till morning light arose. 

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POEMS. 21 

And Alphonsine's sweet, plaintive tones, 

The artless words she said, 
Fell on his ear like funeral moans, 

Or voices from the dead. 

And days rolled by of changeless gloom, 

To Rodolph and his gold, 
Till spring returned with vernal bloom. 

Her beauties to unfold. 

Though much he from the cavern took, 

To more his soul aspired ; 
He once the coffers rudely shook, 

And all they held, desired. 

At last, tivice on the self-same day. 

The cave he boldly sought ; 
A second portion bore away, 

And to his cottage brought. 

' Were Alphonsine but gone,' said he, 
* I, weary of the charge, 
Then would my longing feet be free 
To roam the world at large.' 

To conscience' voice he gave no heed. 
And storms swept o'er the heaven 

As he performed the hellish deed, 
Just ere the fall of even. 

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22 POEMS. 

But when that deed was done, there came 

Remorse, with bitter sighs, 
A hving fire preyed on his frame, 

A fire that never dies. 

He knew he must the forfeit pay ; 

So, when the morning broke, 
Sweet AJphonsine he led away. 

From peaceful slumbers woke. 

' What seek we on the mountain side ? 
My brother,' said the child ; 
The brother stern no word replied, 
His look was dark and wild. 

But on she spake in childish glee, 

As Rodolph SAviftly led 
His sister 'neath a stately tree, 

"Where he had laid the dead. 

' What seek we here at early dawn ? 
The wild deer speeds his flight, 
The grapes are green, the mountain thorn 
Bears yet no berries bright. 

' I '11 twine a wreath of flowers around 
Thy brow, of lily dye ; ' 
But Rodolph threw him on the ground. 
The chUd, amazed, stood by. 

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POEMS. 23 

And while sweet flowers she trembhng laid 

Amid his raven hair, 
Emerging from the forest shade, 

An old man hastened there. 

' I claim the forfeit, lo ! ' he said, 
* The child is now mine own.' 
Then with her vanished, and the dead 
And E-odolph were alone. 

He felt he bore that dead man's ban. 

New blood his hands imbmed. 
And homeward wildly Rodolph ran 

As though some fiend pursued. 

And soon he sold his cot and sheep. 

And left his mountain home, 
And sought to lull remorse to sleep 

Amid the pomp of Rome. 

He built a palace proud and high 

Of sculptured marble there ; 
And all was his that wealth could buy, 

Of worth or beauty rare. 

And costly garments Rodolph wore, 

And richest spices burned ; 
But ever from his palace door, 

The poor, he cursing, spurned. 

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24 POEMS. 

He gently cheered no sufferer sad, 

He warmed no pilgrim cold ; 
No mourning heart was e'er made glad 

By kindness, or by gold. 

No fervent prayer to heaven arose 

For blessings on his head ; 
But feared by friends, and scorned by foes, 

A gloomy life he led. 

'Twas midnight; o'er the city hung 

The lamp that lights the earth: 
'Twas midnight; through the city rung 

The voice of festal mirth. 

St. Peter's bell was pealing loud 

From out its massive dome. 
And trod its aisles a gorgeous crowd, 

'Twas carnival at Rome. 

In marble niches torches blazed, 

And flashed a thousand fires ; 
And minstrels swelling pa3ans raised. 

And swept their sounding lyres. 

And palace doors were opened wide, 

And o'er each banquet board. 
Sweet fragrance, like an airy tide. 

The burning censers poured. 

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POEMS. 25 

And nobles proud, and stately lords, 

The marble pavements strodej 
And knights with pennons, plumes, and swords, 

On fleetest chargers rode. 

But Rodolph, on a thorny bed, 

In fitful to s sings lay ; 
The moon her lustre o'er him shed, 

Till night seemed bright as day. 

He seemed to see his father's face. 

And lines of woe were there ; 
To feel his sister's cold embrace. 

And meet her glassy glare. 

The moonlight on their garments fell, 
The light breeze made them wave ; 

He shuddered, for he knew too well 
Their robes were of the grave ! 

He quailed — reproachful words he seemed 

To hear the phantoms say ; 
Then woke to find that he had dreamed. 

The vision passed away. 

And now he sought to take the life, 

The hated life he bore. 
And madly grasped the glittering knife 

He at his girdle wore. 

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26 POEMS. 

He shrank, he dropped the steel ; his soul 

Was racked by pangs of guilt, 
And keen remorse, that spurned control, 

For blood already spilt. 

That day, as he of gold possessed. 

Was coming from the cave. 
In rage his dagger pierced the breast 

Of Gondoline, a slave ! 

He knew that she had watched his path 

Where none beside were nigh ; 
So madly, in vindictive wrath, 

He bade the menial die. 

Her life-blood jfiowing from the wound, 

His silken vest had stained ; 
He flung it wildly on the ground, 

And e'en the sight disdained. 

For in a torch's flame he burned, 

The garb defiled with blood ; 
Then from the loathsome ashes turned, 

And sought a sparkling flood — 

Of water, that in beauty flowed 

From out a marble fount, 
That rose beliind his proud abode, 

Upon a mossy mount. 

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POEMS. 27 

He bathed him in the cooHng stream, 

Then sought his palace halls, 
And woke each dying torch's gleam, 

That studded o'er the walls. 

He bade his servants swiftly spread 

With feasts the tables o'er ; 
And costly wines, both white and red, 

In golden goblets pour. 

He bade his minstrels sweetly sing, 

And tune anew the lyres ; 
Till every sounding arch should ring 

With music from their wires. 

He bade his doors be opened wide. 

And lit with brilliant flame ; 
Until, to feast at Rodolph's side, 

A train illustrious came. 

The feast went on, the night waned fast, 

The banquet's song was loud ; 
The treacherous wine had darkly cast 

O'er Rodolph's brain a cloud. 

His raging fears it deeply drowned, 

And lulled remorse to sleep, 
Until his shattered reason found 

Its secrets hard to keep. 

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28 POEMS. 

He boasted of his boundless gold, 

The costly gems he wore, 
The slaves his mighty arm controlled, 

His barks the ocean bore. 

Pleased with the praises of his power, 

The wondering listeners gave, 
Alas I in an ill-fated hour 

He told them of the cave I 

He told the secret of his wealth ; 

That, when the world was stilled. 
He sought a distant mount by stealth, 

And all his coffers filled. 

He ridiculed the aged man, 

"Who there the gift had given ; 
And ridiculed the vow he made. 

And swore to keep by heaven ! 

He ceased : the maddening wuie-cloud broke 

And left liis troubled brain ; 
He knew the words so raslily spoke, 

And mourned those words in vain. 

A chill, hke ice, crept o'er his frame, 

Pale grew his crimson brow ; 
And fear with all her horrors came. 

For he had broke his voiv ! 

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A voice rolled through the palace halls, 

In deep and thunder tones, 
And rattled proud and bannered walls, 

Like heaps of mouldered bones. 

A voice, and a fearful form drew nigh, 

Of an awful, solemn bearing; 
And a massive pall of the darkest dye, 

Were its mail-clad shoulders wearing. 

'Twas an aged man, and a mighty lance 
In his hands he flourished proudly ; 

And Rodolph quailed at his searching glance. 
As these words he uttered loudly : — 

' Die, traitor, die ! thou hast broke thy vow, 
And thou canst recall it never ; 
Die, traitor, die ! I have won thee now, 
And thou shalt be mine forever ! ' 

Deep horror sat on the death-pale face 
Of each noble guest that heard him ; 

And they all rose up from their wonted place 
But their host, for a spell deterred him. 

The song was hushed on the minstrel's tongue. 
The harp from the weak hand glided, 

As the clang of the phantom's armor rung. 
And his laugh their fears derided. 

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30 POEMS, 

And they all rushed out at the opened door, 

And the costly feast was wasted ; 
The wine-cups rolled on the marble floor, 

And their contents flowed untasted. 

The fiend and his victim alone were left. 
For his voice the last had banished; 

And the marble pavement "was widely cleft. 
And they both together vanished. 

When morning dawned, not a trace was found 
Of the palace burned and sundered ; 

Men gathering, gazed on the smoking ground, 
And they crossed themselves and wondered. 

There was none o'er Rodolph's fate to weep : 

He had passed, with every token 
Of riches, once as the boundless deep, 

For the vow, the vow was broken ! 




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POEMS. 31 



PART II 



KODOLPHO: OE, THE BROKEN VOW. 

RoDOLPHo and the awful fiend 

Sank down to ghostly regions ; 
And waiting for him, there he saw 

Ten thousand spectre legions. 

And they brought him, shouting fierce and loud 

In their wild infernal tones. 
To their king, whose banner was a shroud, 

And whose palace human bones ! 

And Deatheldorf was the monarch's name, 

And his realm was goblin Vale ; 
And a minister prime had that monarch same, 

Whose title was Shuddergale. 

The king sat high on a blood-red throne, 
With a strange and dazzUng crown ; 

His sceptre proud, was a snow-white bone. 
And he waved it with a frown. 

' Thou wretch ! ' he cried, ' who hast dared to break 
A vow, with my courtier made, 
For this shaU my fiercest judgments burst, 
In their fury on thy head I 

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32 POEMS. 

' O ! thou shalt be torn by torments keen, 
And my eyes thy pangs shall see ; 
Yon brain-fed birds that are feasting seen, 
Shall fatten, perchance, on thee ! ' 

He spake, and he bade his servants bear 

The youth to a barren plain ; 
And to fetter the trembling captive there. 

With a strong and heavy chain. 

They carried him then to an open field, 
And they made him fast, and cried, 
' Till the gates of yon tomb be all unsealed, 
Thou shalt in this spot abide.' 

E.odolpho looked, and a tomb beheld. 

Four portals around it hung, 
And at each a fearful goblin yelled. 

And a key at his girdle swung. 

He stood alone by the awful spot. 

For the monarch's train withdrew. 
And he longed for morn, bu.t he saw it not. 

For the night still darker grew. 

At last a noise at the tomb he heard. 

Of a massive key turned round ; 
And a door, addressed by a magic word, 

Flew wide, with a jarring sound. 

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POEMS. 33 

And he saw a funeral train pass out, 

With a sable hearse before ; 
The hearse was drawn by a gobUn stout, 

And a coffin dark it bore. 

Their forms were lit by a torch's flame, 

And the foul air was its food ; 
And they hastened on till at last they came 

To the spot where Rodolph stood. 

He looked for tears and for mournful groans, 

But no tears the goblins shed, 
For they laughed in wild and savage tones, 

As exulting o'er the dead. 

The glare of the flambeau borne before, 

Flashed over the cofiin dim. 
And he saw that the lid his own name bore. 

That it waited but for him. 

Ptodolpho swooned ; when to hfe he woke, 

No trace of the train he found ; 
He looked at the tomb, at a fresh word spoke, 

Lo I another gate swung round. 

And a dark red stream flowed gently forth, 

And it widened as it ran ; 
It part went south, and it part went north. 

Spread out hke an opened fan. 

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34 POEMS. 

Ere long it covered the whole plain o'er, 

And it wetted Rodolph too ; 
The tiny waves on its breast it bore 

Soon to mighty billows grew. 

And he was bound to an iron stake, 

In the midst of the awful field ; 
His fetters he wildly sought to break. 

But in vain, for they would not yield. 

The stream soon grew to a river wide. 

And it rose to Rodolph's chin, 
And he strove to scream, but Ms accents died 

In the fearful water's din. 

And he saw to him coming a goblin fleet, 

And its sails were white as snow ; 
And loudly rattled each straining sheet, 

As the wind swept to and fro. 

The barks of the goblins, black and red, 
On the foaming "w^aves danced light ; 

They sailed round the fainting Rodolph's head. 
And yelled in their demon might. 

They held out ropes as to save him, oft, 
But when these he strove to grasp, 

They snatched them back with a mocking laugh. 
At their victim's fruitless clasp. 

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POEMS. 35 

At last they weary, the sport forsook, 

And their horrid cries they stilled ; 
But they turned on E-odolph a parting look, 

And his very soul it chilled. 

The crimson billows ceased to bound, 

And the tide kept growing low, 
Till Rodolph gazed on the solid ground, 

Still wet by its recent flow. 

To the tomb he turned, and another gate 

On its bony hinge swung wide. 
And stood at the threshold a spectre great, 

And two crowns were by his side. 

Two forms came forth from the tomb's dark door, 
That in robes of white were clad ; 

And victor palms in their hands they bore, 
And beautiful wings they had. 

The sable shadows of midnight rolled 

Like the mists of morn away, ■ 
And the sun looked down with an eye of gold. 

From the sky of a cloudless day. 

Sweet flowers sprung up of the fairest hue. 

And the barren field was green ; 
And the wondering Rodolph his father knew, 

And his sister, Alphonsine. 

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36 POEMS. 

A seal on the brow of his father lay, 

That shone like the morning snn, 
He bore no traces of pale decay, 

For his earthly race was run. 

His sister's lips with a smile were wreathed, 

The smile that the angels wear. 
And the odors of beautiful flowers she breathed, 

Entwined in her golden hair. 

He strove to speak, but he strove in vain. 
And the crowns he saw them take, 

And upward soar from the goblin plain, 
And a joyful song awake. 

Then clouds swept over the sky serene, 

And the hea\'y thunder roared. 
And over the plain, no longer green. 

Was a fearful tempest poured. 

It ceased, and the fourth, the last great gate 

Of the tomb was opened Avide, 
And Deatheldorf, in a car of state, 

Rode out in liis kingly pride. 

And a train of gobUns next outrushed, 

Whose hideous yells rose liigh. 
Some, under the wheels of the car were crushed. 

But they lived, for they could not die. 

6 O 



o o 

POEMS. 37 

The monarch spake, in an awful tone, 

To his minister, Shuddergale, 
And. proudly flourished his sceptre bone, 

In his huge right hand so pale. 

A fearful trumpet the minister blew. 
And its blasts the plain did shake ; 

And the goblin legions nearer drew, 
As their king to Rodolph spake. 

' Thou wretch ! thou hast felt our heavy ire. 
And thou tremble st at it now, 
But a judgment far than these more dire. 
Shall come for thy broken voio ! 

' Thy sister fair, thou didst sell for gold. 
From our dark abode has gone ; 
Her sinless spirit we could not hold 
By the fetters thou hast worn. 

' Thine aged sire was a holy man, 
And her lot, he too hath shared, 
But thou art writhing beneath his ban, 
To an endless torment spared. 

' The good in a world of bliss rejoice, 
When their earthly bonds are riven. 
But he who yields to the tempter's voice, 
To the tempter's %orath is given.' 

4 

o o 



o- 



-o 



38 



A sign lie made, and the earth oped wide, 

And a deep abyss disclosed, 
And adown its depths the liquid tide 

Of a fiery lake reposed. 

And the goblins hurled Rodolpho in, 
And the greedy flames flashed high, 

While they drowned in a wild, exulting din, 
The sound of his piercing cry. 

'Twas a liideous fire, and its awful rage 
Deep waters could smother, never; 

It burned its victims from age to age, 
And 'tis said it burns forever ! 

And now must I hush my wondrous tale, 

And I know it by this token ; 
The star in the brightening east is pale, 

For the spell of night is broken. 



IF 




o- 



-o 



o o 

POEMS. 39 



SPRING. 



A SONG for thy return, O Spring, — 

Wliat shall the miTsic be ? 
For every bird hath one, whose wing 

Sweeps through the blue air, free. 
His harp the poet cannot wake 

To such melodious strain 
As that Avhose notes the silence break. 

Of field, and hill, and plain, 

A tribute for thy scented breeze, 

That sweep eth to and fro. 
And shaketh from the old fruit trees 

The blossoms white as snow ; 
And scatters them far o'er the grass, 

The soft, green grass and bright, 
Where feet of merry children pass. 

With laugh of wild delight. 

o o 



o^ 



40 



~o 



They hunt the bkie-eyed violet, 

In shady forest nook, 
And snatch the golden cowslip, wet 

With water from the brook. 
They are as happy in their glee 

As birds ujion the wing ; 
Sweet is the song they sing for thee, 

For thy return, O Spring ! 



1 



A tribute to thy fragrant flowers, 

The beautiful, the gay. 
Who slept the long, cold winter hours 

Beneath the ground away. 
They cared not for the icy rain, 

The bleak wind and the snow ; 
They kne^w that thou would'st come again, 

With days of sunny glow. 

They knew that thou would'st call them uj), 

From 'neath the lowly sod. 
And bid each ope its tiny cup 

Wide, for the praise of God : 
His praise, who bathes them in his dew, 

Who pencils every leaf. 
And gives to each its radiant hue. 

And season, long or brief. 



o- 



-O 



o o 

POEMS. 41 

O Spring ! thiice welcome all thy gifts 

So "wondrous, fan, and sweet ; 
The trees, the flowers, the grass, that lifts 

Its spires beneath our feet. 
Thou bringest to our memory 

That brighter "world on high, 
Whose blossoms ope eternally, 

Wlaose beauties never die. 

And, as for thy return, sweet Spring ! 

From winter's dreary tomb, 
Now nature wakes, thy praise to sing, 

And with new life to bloom ; 
So may our dust, which soon shaU lie 

With ashes, kindred born, 
Arise, and hail with joyful cry 

The resurrection morn. 




o -— O 



o- 



-o 



42 



WANDERING THOUGHTS. 



Come home my thoughts, O wherefore, idly 
straying. 

Wander ye thus at evening's hallowed time ; 
Still, still upon earth's meaner shores delaying, 

Wliile pure devotion plumes for flight sublime, 
And spirit voices on the soft, still air, 

Whisper to mortals summons sweet to prayer. 



Tlie golden sun's departing beams are wreathing 

Forest, and plain, and cot, and stately tower ; 
And the cool night wind sweepeth, gently 
breathing, 
And the bright dew lies on the folded flower ; 
Return my thoughts, O, wherefore idly roam. 
Come to the shrine, the cross, — come home, come 
home ! 



o- 



-o 



o o 

POEMS. 43 

This is the hour for sacred, sweet communion 
With the pure spirits of a purer sphere ; 

Now hath the soul with heaven a nearer union, 
Breaking the fetters that w^ould chain it here ; 

Soarmg on Faith's own pinions far away 

Up to the regions of eternal day. 

Come from the bowers of worldly hopes and 
pleasures, 

Ere the bright bow that spans their sky be fled, 
Come from the absent, memory fondly treasures ; 

Come from the silent mansions of the dead. 
Tarry no more in mournful reverence now, 
Wliere the destroyer's seal mars beauty's brow. 

Cease to brood longer o'er affection slighted, 
In this cold world it must be often so ; 

Love will be wasted, scorned, and unrequited. 
And its bright waters darkened as they flow, 

Till purer realms to truer hearts give birth. 

Seldom thy gifts, O sad, mysterious earth ! 

Come from the lore of days long since departed, 

A holier book is oped for ye to scan, 
And themes more glorious far than ever darted 

Thro' the thick darkness shrouding erring man ; 
The Book of books ! cluster ye thoughts of mine 
Around each page and hail it as a shrine. 



O O 



o- 



o 



44 



POEMS 



Come from the land of Fancy, ever glowing 
With the soft radiance of ideal things, 

A fairer world whence richer rays are flowing. 
Hues far more beauteous o'er your pinions flings ; 

Catch the bright glories as they pass ye by, 

Like the fleet splendors of the sunset sky. 

Haste, O my thoughts, ere in your freshness 
wasted. 
What earth, first served, resigns, heaven may 
but claim, 
Ere the dull spirit leave the cup untasted, 

Proffered to rouse to life her sluggish frame ; 
Return, return, O cease to idly roam, 
Come to the slxrine, the cross, — come home ! come 
home! 




O- 



-O 



o o 

POEMS. 45 



SUNSET AT SEA. 



How glorious, when like a crown 

Upon the western wave, 
The golden sun goes calmly down 

Into his ocean grave. 

But ere he hides his flaming head 

Beneath the foaming crest, 
A broad deep glare of burning red 

He flings across her breast. 

Then o'er his place of burial ride, 

In majesty sublime, 
The giant waves, that have defied 

For ages, change and time. 

Now night spreads wide her ebon wings, 

Adorned with starry gems, 
More radiant far than eastern kings' 

Most brilliant diadems. 

6 6 



o- 



46 



-O 



POEMS 



O, sunset on the land is fair, 
When darker shadows fall, 

And far away we see him bear 
The Hght that gladdens all ; 

When evening zephyrs gently sweep 
With fragrance of the rose, 

And weary nature sinks to sleep 
In undisturbed repose. 

But 't is a nobler, grander scene, 
The ocean world displays, 

When in a grave of liquid green 
He hides his golden rays ; 

Where never slumbering waters roll 

In tireless fury by, 
Wliose wrath he only can control 

Who formed the sea and sky. 

Go, ride where feet have never trod, 
O'er w^ildest paths and free, 

And worship nature's glorious Grod 
At sunset on the sea ! 



O 



-o 



o o 

POEMS. 47 



WHEN IS THE TIME TO DIE? 



I ASKED a glad and happy child, 

Whose hands were filled with flowers, 
Whose silvery laugh rang free and wild, 

Among the vine-wreathed bowers. 
I crossed her sunny path, and cried, 
' When is the time to die ? ' 
' Not yet ! not yet ! ' the child repUed, 
And swiftly bounded by. 

I asked a maiden, back she flung 

The tresses of her hair ; 
A whispered name was on her tongue, 

Whose memory hovered there. 
A flush passed o'er her lily brow, 

I caught her spirit's sigh ; 
' Not now,' she cried, ' O no, not now I 

Youth is no time to die.' 

I asked a mother, as she prest 

Her first-born in her arms. 
As gently on her tender breast 

She hushed her babe's alarms. 

o 6 



o- 



48 



-o 



In quivering tones her answer came, 
Her eyes were dim with tears, 
' My horj his mother's Hfe must claim. 
For many, many years I ' 

I questioned one in manhood's prime. 

Of proud and fearless air, 
His bro'w was furrowed not by time. 

Or dimmed by woe and care. 
In angry accents he replied, — 
And gleamed with scorn liis eye, 
' Talk not to me of death,' he cried, 
' For only age should die.' 

I questioned Age ; for him, the tomb 

Had long been all prepared. 
But death, who withers youth and bloom, 

Tliis man of years had spared. 
Once more his nature's dying fire 

Flashed high, as thus he cried, 
' Life, only life is my desire ! ' 

Then gasped, and groaned, and died. 

I asked a Christian — ' answer thou 
When is the hour of death ; ' 

A holy calm was on his brow. 
And peaceful was his breath ; 

And sweetly o'er his features stole 
A smile, a light divine ; 

He spake the language of his soul, 
' My Master's time is ^nine ! ' 



o~ 



'O 



o o 

POEMS. 49 



BRIGHT FANCY, SPREiD THY PINIONS WIDE. 



Bright Fancy, spread thy pinions wide, 

And let me soar ■with thee. 
While fall the shades of eventide. 

That darken land and sea ! 

O, bear me to the muses' seat, 

If such may there appear. 
Where roll, in numbers wildly sweet, 

Songs lost to mortal ear. 

Say, is that seat on Ida's mount, 

Where fadeless sunbeams glow. 
Or where Castaha's silver fount 

And sparkling waters flow ? 

Where minstrels drank, in days of old, 

The song-inspiring waves, 
That came o'er sands of shining gold, 

Deep in the mountain caves. 

O — O 



o- 



50 



o 



POEMS 



Or, in Acadia's myrtle groves, 

Whose leaves are never sere ; 
Where Pan, perchance, still idly roves, 

And charms the shepherd's ear — 

Where Bacchus noisy revel held, 

Crowned with the vine-leaves bright ; 

And dancing satyrs wildly yelled. 
And broke the peaceful night ; 

When deigned great Jove his tlirone to leave. 

And liigh Olympic's bowers, 
And haughty Juno stooped to weave 

A wreath of earthly flowers. 

Or is their seat beneath the deep. 

Among its coral caves, 
Where sea-gods mighty tridents keep 

To lash rebellious waves ? 



Where Neptune decks his palace o'er 

With gems of brilliant hue. 
And pearls along the polished floor, 

Lie thick as drops of dew; 

Where insects build their tiny cells, 

Rough billows never tear, 
Wliere sea-nymphs wind their rosy shells, 

Or braid their silken hair ; 



o- 



-o 



Q . _ O 

POEMS. 51 I 

Or wet witli tears of pity warm, 

In some deep gloomy cave, 
The shipwrecked sailor's lifeless form, 

And grant him there a grave ; 

Or gather sea-flowers pale and cold, 

To wreathe his temples o'er, 
Then bear his icy corse to mould 

Upon the pebbly shore. 

Or is their seat on ocean's breast. 

Where sea-birds swiftly skim, 
When in the distant clouded west. 

The lamp of day burns dim ; — 

Or Triton, in his car of gold, 

By shining dolj^hins drawn. 
The waves upon their bosom hold, 

To greet the blushing morn ? 

Or on the wild and sea-girt strand. 

Among the lofty rocks. 
Where howls the breeze that sweeps to land, 

Whose sound the water mocks ? 

Or 'mong the silver stars, that light 

The pensive gloom of even, 
And shed a lustre mildly bright 

"Upon the darkened heaven. 

o — — o 



o- 



52 



POEMS 



-o 



The fairest of the starry band — 

Is that the muses' seat ; 
"Where land reechoes back to land 

Then* numbers wildly sweet ? 

"Wliere gentler breezes sweep along, 

And on their pinions bear 
The softest, purest notes of song — 

It must — it must be there. 

O, spread thy wings, bright Fancy ! wide, 

And let me soar with thee, 
"While fall the shades of eventide, 

That darken land and sea ! 




o- 



-o 



o o 

POEMS. 53 



THE THREE DREAMS. 



'T WAS night, and on a battle-field 

A tented host were lying, 
A warrior slumbered on his shield, 

His banner o'er him flying. 

He dreamed he won a wreath of fame, 
That round his brows he bound it ; — 

Death with the strife at mornmg came — 
The warrior never found it. 

A young girl slept within her bower, 

A smile her red Hps parted. 
Bright visions of some by-gone hour, 

Swift o'er her dreaming darted. 

Love's cup of bliss fond fancy grasped — 
Could aught destroy it ? — never ! 

She woke to find the chahce dashed, 
The treasure gone forever ! 

5* 

o o 



o- 



-o 



54 



"Weary and worn a pilgrim lay- 
Where greenwood shades were blending, 

His soul in heavenly dreams away 
The angel sleep was sending. 

Hours passed, and saw that pilgrim wake 

To catch the real gloamings 
Of worlds that on the vision break, 

Not in earth's holiest dreamings. 




o- 



-o 



o o 

POEMS. 65 



GOD GIVETH US THIS GIORIOUS WORLD. 



God giveth us tliis glorious world, 

Its sunbeams and its sliowers, 
Its trees with vernal beauty crowned, 

And brightly blooming flowers. 
Tlie swelling plains, where waves the grass 

Like billows of the sea, 
As summer breezes o'er it pass, 

On pinions soft and free. 

He giveth us the welcome day. 

The golden sun, whose beams 
Break thi-ough the dusky shades of night 

Like hope's celestial gleams — 
And peaceful eve, whose crown outvies 

The richest diadems. 
For heaven's own jewels glitter there. 

Ten thousand, thousand gems. 

God giveth us the countless streams, 

"Whose silver waters flow 
Through flowery field and verdant plain, 

With music sweet and low ; — 



-O 



o- 



56 



POEMS 



-o 



The mount, tliat to the lofty skies 
Its towering head uplifts ! — 

Above, below, and everywhere, 
Are our Creator's gifts. 

He giveth us a heart to love 

All that he here hath made, 
But asks that at his sluine alone 

Our homage should be paid. 
Yet, O, the base ingratitude 

Of man's rebellious soul. 
He stoops to be the slave of sin, 

Yields to her vile control. 

Strange, that the goodness God displays. 

In his creative powers. 
Should fail so oft to rouse to life 

The gratitude of ours. 
Strange, that on earth's inferior things, 

As grovelling as the sod, 
Man wastes the freshness of a mind, 

Immortal as its God. 

O, when shall that blest season come, 

Whose radiance shall illume, 
And call the spirit, wrapped in night, 

Forth from its hving tomb ? 
Wlien praise to God from every tongue, 

And anthems, shall ascend. 
Till seraph choirs with earth's redeemed, 

The sounding chorus blend. 



o- 



-o 



o o 

POEMS. 57 



MUSIC. 



' He was dying. They bent over him, and he whispered, " I hear the 
sound of music, 't is distant, but, O how sweet ! " ' 

Music ! what was it? the S'welhng note 

Of a psean loud and high, 
Whose echoes back on the light breeze float, 

As a martial train sweeps by ? 
Not this, not this was the sound so clear, 
So sweet, that broke on a mortal's ear. 

Music ! what was it ? the solemn sound 

Of an exile's funeral hymn, 
As a sable train to the burial-ground 

Moves on through the forest dim ? 
Not tliis, not this was the sound so clear. 
So sweet, that broke on a mortal's ear. 

Music ! what was it ? a banquet's song, 
Where the red wine sparkles bright, 

And the joys of festal mirth prolong 
The feasts of the shadowy night ? 

Not this, not this was the sound so clear. 

So sweet, that broke on a mortal's ear, 

O O 



o- 



-o 



58 



Music ! what was it ? a bridal lay, 
Oft chanted 'mid smiles and tears, 

As the blushing maiden they lead away 
From the home of her early years ? 

Not this, not this was the sound so clear, 

So sweet, that broke on a mortal's ear. 

Music ! what was it ? the trump that sings 
Of the fadeless Avreaths of fame. 

Whose tone to the panting spirit brings 
The news of a deathless name ? 

Not tliis, not this was the sound so clear, 

So sweet, that broke on a mortal's ear. 

Music ! what was it? the hunter's horn 

In the echoing valley wound, 
Wliose loud notes startle the timid fawn 

In the greenwood's depths profound ? 
Not this, not this was the sound so clear, 
So sweet, that broke on a mortal's ear. 

Music ! what was it ? the Sabbath bell, 
On the morning zephyrs borne. 

That seems to bring with its sacred swell 
Relief to the hearts that mourn ? 

Not this, not this was the sound so clear, 

So sweet, that broke on a mortal's ear. 



o- 



-o 



o o 

POEMS. 59 

'Twas the sound a dying Christian heard, 

Wlio stood on the shore of Time, 
There broke on his ear, one thriUing "word, 

One note of a song sublime. 
Then quickly he dropped his cumbrous clay. 

And soared to the angel choir, 
And sang, while mounting the shining way, 

With a seraph's holy fixe. 
Feeble and faint, and of transient worth. 

Are the lays the world has given ; 
O, there is nought on the wide, wide earth 

Like the joyful songs of heaven ; 
Nought hke the music, so soft and sweet, 
Of ransomed souls at the Saviour's feet I 




O o 



o- 



-o 



60 



THE WATER LILY 



O, THE white water-lily that blooms on the wave ! 
The sweetest and purest that nature e'er gave, 
It Ufts its pale brow from the breast of the stream, 
And its golden eye kindles at morning's first beam, 
When temp est- clouds gather and break in the sky, 
And the dark tide quivers and wildly sweeps by. 
It smiles on the waters, the fierce winds that blow, 
For the lily is anchored, fast anchored below. 

O, would that my bark on life's tremulous sea 
Might sleep on the billows, sweet lily ! like thee. 
Unscathed by the rage of the tide and the storm. 
Whose fury ne'er shatters thy beautiful form. 
Firmly anchored below, I could smile at the strife 
That troubles the skies and the waters of life ; 
Like the pride of the streamlet, exultingly brave 
The shock of the tempest, the wrath of the wave. 



O- 



-o 



o- — ■ — — — — o 

POEMS. 61 



APRIL. 



The April days ! the April days ! 

They are the days for me, 
And this the breeze that round me plays 

So pure, so soft, and free. 

Now life o'er nature's death prevails, 

Aiid, 'neath its magic sway. 
She flings aside her shroud, and hails 

Her resurrection day. 

The earth, that icy winter chilled, 

A living spirit warms ; 
And e'en the realms of air are filled 

With life in varied forms. 

O ! other months to me are dear, 

Glad May and sunny June, 
When nature's music greets the ear 

In more harmonious tune. 

6 

o — o 



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62 POEMS. 

But yet the brooklet's merry song, 

The wild bhd's from the bough, 
Will never sound the summer long, 

As they are sounding noiv ; — 

And flowers in soil more verdant nurst, 

That coming months may bring, 
Will never charm me like the Jirst 

That wreathe the brow of spring. 

The April skies ! the April skies ! 

How beautiful are they. 
When swift-winged clouds this moment rise, 

And pass the next away ; — 

When here her curtain darkness holds 

O'er heaven's pure azure sea. 
And there, from out its gloomy folds, 

The sunlight flashes free. 

'T is sweet to see the shadows fly; 

But yet I think it strange 
That / should love an April sky, 

Who am averse to change : 

But nature hath her charms in this 

That o'er regret prevail. 
For ere we mourn the scene we miss, 

A brighter one we hail. 

o o 



o ■ o 

POEMS. 63 

But, O the showers ! the April showers, 

The pearly drops that fall 
So freely on this world of ours, 

I love the best of all. 

Each hill puts on a vernal crown, 

And forest, vale, and plain ; 
For spring's most radiant gifts come down 

With April's gentle rain. 

The Sun, so glorious and so bright, 

That 'mid the drops appears. 
Is like religion's cheering light, 

Through sorrow's falling tears : — 

And earth, that drinks heaven's bounteous cup. 

And blooms in every place. 
Is hke the drooping heart waked up 

To life, 'neath showers of grace. 

O, spring ! who givest April days 

So very dear to me, 
Among the poet's sweetest lays 

Is ever one for thee. 

And ye, who seek the green hih's brow, 

Or tread the valley's sod. 
At nature's shrine adoring now, 

O worship there her God ! 

o ^— o 



o _o 

64 POEMS. 



TBEY SHAH PERISH, BUT THOU SHALT ENDURE.' 



The sun shall perish ; the golden sun, 

"Who rideth forth like a conquering one, 

Flinging his beams from the arching sky. 

As he proudly sweeps through the realms on high ; 

But the day shall come, when the sun no more 

His glorious rays on the earth shall pour, 

For men to a greater light shall bow. 

The sun shall perish, but O, not thou. 

The moon shall perish ; the soft, sweet moon. 
The radiant queen of the midnight noon ; 
A gloomy veil shall her brightness shroud. 
And pass not off as a fleeting cloud, 
Of a darker hue and a wilder form 
Than the sable pall of the angry storm. 
Hiding the light that she gives us now. 
The moon shall perish, but O, not thou. 

The stars shall perish ; the countless stars, 
That traverse the sky in their silvery cars ; 
From the fii-st that burns when the sun goes down. 
To the last that lingers in night's bright crown ; 

O O 



o . o 

p o E SI s . 65 

They all shall fade as they fade at morn, 
When the red east tells that the day is born ; 
They all shall pass from the heaven's blue brow, 
The stars shall perish, but O, not thou. 

The sea shall perish ; the deep, wide sea, 
With its waves careering wild and free ; 
She scorns the wrath of the storms of air, 
She gilds her foam with the lightning's glare ; 
But the day of a mightier storm draws nigh, 
Whose scorching fire shall her caverns dry ; 
Each drop that lies in her proud depths now, 
Ay, all shall perish, but O, not thou. 

The land shall perish ; the mighty land, 
The towering mount, and the desert sand, 
The fertile plain and the fruitful field ; 
The flowers that blossom, the trees that yield ; 
And stateliest temples and towers shaU. fall. 
And the wild moss creep o'er their ruined wall, 
Cities and thrones old time shall bow. 
All that is mortal, but O, not thou. 

Roll on, ye years, in your swiftness roll. 
He lives, whose breath is a mortal's soul; 
He lives enthroned in his might sublime. 
The Lord Jehovah, unchanged by time. 
O, great Creator of earth and skies, 
'Tis on thy mercy our hope relies, 
Worms of the dust at thy feet we bow — 
Heaven, earth may perish, but O, not thou. 

O O 



o- 



-o 



66 



THESE ME TM WHO CAME OUT OP GREAT TRIBULATION. 



Revelation 7 ; 13, 14. 



Who are these in robes of white, 

Round the great Eternal's throne ? 
On their brows a seal of light, 

Chanting With celestial tone ; 
* Glory, glory to the Lamb ! 

Blessing to the King of kings, 
Honor to the great I Am ! ' 

Every tongue with rapture sings. 

These are they who once below, 

Perished in the martyr's tlame ; 
Bade their blood for Jesus flow, 

Dying, triumphed in his name. 
These are they whose lives were crowned 

With religion's holy zeal. 
On the torturing rack who found 

Peace their murderers could not feel. 



o- 



-o 



o ■ o 

POEMS. 67 

These are they who cheerful dwelt 

In the desert and the cave, 
"Where the love of God they felt, 

Where they drank salvation's wave. 
These are they who bore the cross 

Meekly, and with willing feet, 
Counting all but heaven as dross, 

Deeming death for Jesus, sweet. 

Oft their faith the brightest showed, 

'Mid the world's increasing gloom, 
And their path with glory glowed 

As they journeyed to the tomb. 
Heavenly hopes devotion fired. 

Tuned to rapture every tongue ; 
Heavenly zeal their souls inspired, 

Fear and doubt aside were flung. 

Tlius they sojourned here, till death 

Set them from affliction free ; 
Ever, to their latest breath. 

Mighty God, adoring thee. 
Now around thy throne they dwell, 

Ne'er to suffer want and pain ; 
Hark ! their songs triumphant, swell. 

Worthy is the Lamb to reign. 



o ^ o 



o- 



-o 



68 



Thou dost lead these faithful ones 

Tlu'ough thy vast celestial realms, 
"Where beat down no scorching suns, 

Where no raging storm o'erwhelms. 
"Where eternal beauty reigns, 

And purest crystal waters bound, 
Sweetly flow o'er swelling plains 

With immortal verdure crowned. 

There the wicked vex no more. 

And the weary are at rest ; 
Persecution's reign is o'er, 

Love and peace fill every breast. 
Lo ! they are the conquerors now. 

Once the victims of the sword, 
And their haughty murderers bow 

To the strong arm of the Lord. 

Thou dost wipe away the tears 

Gently from the mourner's eyes. 
For the blight of pain and years 

Give the bloom that never dies. 
God of mercy ! may we so 

Share the blessings of thy love. 
As thou art our all below, 

Be our all in heaven above ! 



o- 



-o 



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POEMS. 69 



THE SUNLIGHT OE HOME. 



How beautiful I liow beautiful ! 

The sunlight of our homes, 
Ere death, with pinion wild and dark, 

To dim its radiance comes ; 
Ere fade the flowers affection twines, 

And one by one depart 
The rays of that sweet star, that shines 

The brightest on the heart. 

Wliene'er the wanderer turns his feet 

To seek his native glen, 
It flashes forth a welcome sweet 

To those he loves again. 
It cheered him oft when far away 

In other climes alone, 
From palace proud or humble cot, 

But ah, 'twas not his own. 

He heard the merry laugh ring out 

Oft as he passed them by. 
And saw upon the happy hearth 

The red fire blazing high; 

O O 



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70 POEMS. 

It woke a yearning in his breast, 

Until he ceased to roam, 
And then it quickened every step 

That brought him nearer home. 

Thanks be to God who gave it us, 

He is a God of love ; 
For O, he made it like to that 

Which gilds the home above. 
It is so pure and glorious, 

And lighteth up the heart 
With such a joy they scarce can bear, 

Who love it, to depart. 

' T is beautiful ! 't is beautiful ! 

This sunlight calm and bright. 
Ere death's dark pinions o'er it sweep 

Like shadows of the night. 
But oft there comes a cloud, to dim 

The radiance of its bliss ; 
O ! is there one that ever wept, 

Who hath not wept for this ? 

But though so often sorrowful 

Our dwellings are below, 
The purer, brighter homes of heaven 

Above, are never so. 
There, loved ones meet and part no more. 

And sing the same sweet hymns ; 
The dark and fearful wing of death 

That sunlight never dims. 

I 

o— — — O 







Tkare's grie£ among the sons of sorrg 
Thej nrtoura a fallen, i^em.. 

F- 71. 



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POEMS. 71 



STANZAS 



TO THE MEMORY OF 



MARGARET M. DAVIDSON. 



Fling o'er the lyre a faded wreath, 

And bid the voice of song 
Be mournful as the winds that sweep 

The autumn leaves along. 
There 's darkness where the silver waves 

Of sweet Castalia flow, 
A harp is on the willows hung, 

A minstrel's grave below. 

There 's grief among the sons of song, 

They mourn a fallen gem ; 
And, O, a peerless one is lost 

From song's bright diadem ; 
For where, O where, was light so pure. 

So radiantly divine ; 
And where, O where, ^vas loveliness, 

Departed one, like thine ? 

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72 POEMS. 



Thou wert so dear, so beautiful, 

So very young, to die ; 
So angel like, I would have thought 

That death had passed thee by, 
And with his icy hand, forborne 

To hush thy early lay, 
And cast upon thy sunny brow 

A shadow of decay. 

There is a wail upon the breeze, 

And on the soft, sweet air, 
A gathering round thy marble bed, 

As if to see thee there. 
There is a yearning for thy smile, 

A longing for thy strain, 
A list'ning for thy bounding step, 

Though list'ning is in vain. 

For thou hadst learned around our hearts 

So closely to entwine. 
That now that thou art gone, it seems 

As they had gone with thine. 
But, O, we ask thee not again 

To tread life's path of thorns, 
'Tis selfish sorrow prompts the wish. 

Which true aiFection scorns. 

There was too much of heaven in thee 

For earth to keep thee long, 
And breathings of that blessed world 

Have sanctified thy song, 

O O 



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POEMS. 73 

And wreathed around thy memory here, 

A hallowed fame and pure, 
Which, like the burning stars above, 

Shall evermore endure. 

Thy numbers fell upon our ears 

Like notes of starry bird, 
The Aveary traveller oft beneath 

Some shadowy grove hath heard; 
The music of a stranger dove, 

Awhile that gladdened earth, 
Then spread its radiant wings, and sought 

The land that gave it birth. 

While others toil till hoary age. 

To win an honored name, 
A few brief years have won for thee 

A glorious meed of fame ; 
But, O, what is the poet's fame ? 

'T is oft a fleeting breath; 
And purchased by a weary life, 

Or by an early death. 

He wins the favors of the world 

For sorrow to consume. 
And binds his brow with laurel wreaths, 

To wear them in the tomb ; 
With visions beautiful and bright 

As Eden, floating by. 
Or shrouded in the shades of grief. 

He lays him down to die. 

O— 1 — o 



o — — — o 

74 POEMS. 

His heart is like the harp he sweeps ; 

If joy his bosom thrill, 
Where'er his lot is cast, it beats 

To joyous music still ; 
If sadness o'er his spirit steal, 

'Tis mingled with his strain, 
And mournful numbers breath aloud 

That spirit's secret pain. 

His is a too ambitious soul 

Of honor and renown. 
And all too keenly sensitive 

To disappointment's frown. 
But he who strung his spirit's chords, 

Their wondrous fineness gave, 
Too brittle from the harsh world's jar 

For mortal hand to save. 

The bard hath oft a longing here 

For higher, nobler bliss, 
A pining for a purer world, 

A weariness of this. 
'Twas thus with thee, O gentle one, 

And now thou art away, 
Where ' songs of other lands are heard, 

And other waters play.' 

A voice was calling thee to join 

A holier minstrel tlirong ; 
A kindred spirit led the way 

That oft inspired thy song. 

o o 



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POEMS. 75 

Thy seraph sister welcomed thee 

To yon celestial choir, 
And taught thy trembling hand to sweep, 

Like hers, a golden lyre. 

And now thy dust so beautiful 

In earth's green bosom lies, 
Thy memory in these hearts of ours, 

"While thou art in the skies. 
Thy memory ! O, a deathless one, 

And glorious here is tliine, 
For love and fame shall ever seek 

And hail it as a shrine. 

Farewell ! for us sweet hope shall rear 

Her altar on thy tomb, 
And burning there celestial fires 

Shall scatter all its gloom ; 
Farewell I for I can sing no more. 

No more to me is given, 
The harp is far too earthly here 

To sweep for thee in heaven I 




O O 



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76 POEMS. 



PRAY, MARINER, PRAY. 



When the proud ship scuds thro' the ghtteringfoam 
Of the billows that break on the shores of home, 
And the lands most dear in the distance He, 
Dim through the tears of the straining eye. 
As borne o'er the breast of the deep away, 
The loved thou leavest, pray, mariner, pray. 

When the Sabbath morn on the waters breaks. 
And their distant roar as an anthem wakes, 
What though the courts of the house of prayer, 
Thou canst not tread ^vith a hallowed air, 
On the ocean's breast on the sacred day. 
To the ocean's God, pray, mariner, pray. 

When the storm is loud, and the night is dark. 
And the strong waves dashing against thy bark. 
Sweep helm and stern in their wild career, 
And waiting graves in their track appear, 
On her deck, all wet with the scattered spray, 
Kneehng in terror, pray, mariner, pray. 

When the storm is o'er and the night is past. 
And the spell of peace on the deep is cast, 
And the morning sun with his flaming eye 

o o 



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POEMS. 77 

Flings golden beams from the cloudless sky, 
And the good ship speeds on her watery way, 
Gratefully bending, pray, mariner, pray. 

When the angel death with his icy dart. 
The life-blood chills in a messmate's heart, 
And he coldly sinks to his unknown grave. 
The dark, deep depths of the ocean wave. 
As thou lookest down on his shrouded clay, 
Passing forever, pray, mariner, pray. 

When the tempter comes with his fatal snares. 
And the foaming cup that his hand prepares, 
Seek not his joys, for they bring but woe ; 
Quench not thy thirst in the sparkling flow 
Of his poisonous draught, O dash it away. 
For strength to resist him, pray, mariner, pray. 

When the Spirit of God, in its own sweet tone. 
Whispers of bliss to thy heart unknown. 
That the cross of Christ, with its glories bright, 
Can gild the shades of thy soul's dark night, 
Yield up thy all to his sacred sway. 
Mourning thy follies, pray, mariner, pray. 

Would' st thou moor thy bark in a port of peace, 
When the last wild tempest of life shall cease. 
With a shout and a song triumphant land 
On the heavenly Eden's glittering strand ? 
Here must thou seek, on thy perilous way, 
A passport to glory ; pray, mariner, pray. 

6 ~ 6 



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78 POEMS. 



THE GRAPES AND THE STREAM. 



O'er a stream a vine was bending 

"With its purple burden low, 
"While its shadowy leaves Avere blending 

AVith the silvery water's flow; 
This, the haughty grapes addressing, 

Murmured words of scorn and pride. 
Deeming scarce to man a blessing, 

Fresh and. pure the lowly tide. 

' Puny stream ! that idly flowest 

On, to hide in yonder sea, 
Lost forever where thou goest. 

Lightly mortals think of thee ; 
We, in golden goblets flashing. 

Deck the monarch's banquet board, 
Thou, adown yon wild rocks dasliing, 

To oblivion art restored. 

' Oft we moisten lips of beauty, 
Drown in gladness sorrow's tear, 
Nerve the soul to might and duty, 
Banish every coward fear. 

i o 



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POEMS. 79 

Man, of IIS, with rapture speaketh, 

Yonder cometh, still the same, 
Puny stream ! not thee he seeketh, 

'Tis to bear us hence to fame.' 

Answered thus the stream, replying 

To the children of the vine, 
* Pain and death concealed are lying, 

Neath your gift, deceitful wine. 
Ye have slain a countless number, 

Hosts no mortal tongue can tell, 
Wakened from a dreamless slumber 

To the bitterness of hell ! 

' In the monarch's glittering chalice 

Ye may pour your crimson flood, 
'Tis no tongue of idle malice 

Whispers you like human blood ; 
That, on health and strength presuming, 

Ye, whose sweets tempt mortals so, 
Young and old alike are dooming. 

To the deepest depths of woe. 

On their heads who bliss shall borrow 

From the charms that in you blend, 
Heavy w^ith eternal sorrow, 

Shall the curse of God descend. 
While earth's wiser sons and daughters 

Here who quaff me from the sod, 
Rise to drink celestial waters. 

Flowing from the throne of God ! ' 

o— O 



o 



-o 



80 



DARK, GLOOMY THOUGHTS STEAL O'ER MY SOUL. 



Dark, gloomy thoughts steal o'er my soul, 

And hope's bright visions fly, 
Thoughts like the stormy clouds, that roll 

Across a sunny sky. 

No peaceful waves are sweeping o'er 

My bosom's troubled sea, 
But there a thousand waters pour 

Tumultuous, wild, and free. 

The aims so late with zeal pursued. 
Their gilded charms have lost ; 

These, once with sweet delight I viewed, 
But now have learned their cost. 



o- 



My soul hath turned away from hun 
Who all her peace hath given, 

My lamp of faith is burning dim, 
That lights my path to heaven. 



-o 



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POEMS. 81 

The Saviour's face no longer wears 

The gracious smiles it wore ; 
The Saviour's cross no longer bears 

The glories once it bore, 

! I have loved thee, earth ! too weU, 
Thy frail and fleeting toys, 

But now I break thy sinful spell. 
And grasp immortal joys. 

1 may not from thy bonds be free, 
But unto me is given 

To feed my soul with less of thee, 
And more, far more, of heaven. 

O that my soul could thither glide. 

And upward freely soar ; 
Could spread her earth-dimmed pinions wide, 

And bend them down no more ! 

O, that she now might quench her thirst, 

Where heavenly waters rise, 
Where purer, sweeter fountains burst. 

Eternal, in the skies. 

Immortal minds must ever feed 

Upon immortal fruits. 
And those are death's, are death's indeed, 

That grow from earthly roots ! 

O -o 



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82 POEMS. 



ASSURANCE. 



That I am thine, dear Jesus, thine, 

The sweet assurance give ; 
Submissive to thy will divine, 

Henceforth on earth I hve. 

O, let me feel that I am bought 

By thy redeeming blood, 
That thou hast my salvation wrought, 

And made my peace with God ! 

O, let me see that I may claim 

Some portion of thy love, 
Till burns my heart with sacred flame, 

Enkindled from above. 

Grant that my feet may never stray 

In folly from thy side. 
Instruct me in the heavenly way 

To where the blest abide. 

6 O 



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POEMS. 83 

My thoughts that ching in days gone by 

To earth's dehisive dreams, 
Now heavenward, upward e'er shall fly, 

And feast on nobler themes, 

A purer bhss than earth affords. 

My longing soul shall fill. 
Obedient to thy sacred words, 

And set to do thy will. 

United evermore to thee, 

On thee my hope relies, 
Thy glory all my aim shall be, 

Till summoned to the skies. 

O, banish every doubt and fear. 

To heaven thy cross I bear ; 
Thine, joyful in assurance here 

Of dweUing with thee there ! 




O o 



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84 POEMS. 



TO THE SPIRIT OP SONG. 



O! WHERE art thou sti-aying, sweet spirit of song? 

Bend hither thy beautiful wings ; 
And the strains of my harp shall thy praises prolong 

As I waken its slumbering strmgs. 

Say, where hast thou roamed since I summoned 
thee last 

From the realms of thy w^andering free, 
The radiant spell of thy presence to cast. 

O'er the path of a mortal like me ? 

Hast thou mused on the shore of the tremulous 
deep, 
In the lap of the rosy-lipped shell, 
Wlien the foam sparkled bright on the waters 
asleep, 
As they rose in their stillness and fell, — 

Or the storm-god swept in the wild- wind's car, 
O'er the breast of the quivering main, 

As she echoed the roar of the thunder far 
In the glare of the lightning's chain ? 

O O 



o ■ o 

POEMS. 85 

Hast thou entered the reahns of the spiritless dead, 

To mourn in their sohtude drear ? 
Sad tears for their early departure to shed, 

Sweet spirit, to thee who were dear ; 

Who welcomed thee once as I welcome thee now 
To bring from the harp sweeter tone, 

Ere the laurel leaf withered on youth's sunny brow. 
And the lyre hung deserted and lone ? 

Thou wilt grieve not for these, O spirit of song, 
Though the lips that invoked thee are cold, 

And the shroud round then dust hath been 
mantled so long. 
Undisturbed in its marble-like fold. 

They welcome thee now in a purer abode, 
From their earthly enthralments set free. 

And their hearts, that once here with thy purity 
glowed, 
Hold nearer communion with thee. 

Hast thou followed the footsteps of beautiful 
spring. 

With life the still earth to endow ? 
For meadow, and forest, and valley loud ring 

With strains of glad melody now. 



o o 



o- 



-o 



86 



I hear thee ! I hear thee ! when evenhag's soft 
breeze 
Or morning's cool zephyrs sweep by, 
Thou 'rt 'mong the green boughs of the shadowy 
trees, 
Or where the bright flowerets He. 

No voices are echoed through nature's wide realms 

Of majesty, gladness, or glee ; 
When the peaceful sky smiles, or the tempest 
o'erwhelms. 

That are caught not, O spirit, from thee. 

Bend hither, bend hither thy radiant wings, 

And give to the harp a sweet tone, 
O ! fan with thy pinions its slumbering strings, 

Till the music it pours is thine own. 




o- 



-o 



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POEMS. 87 



LINES 

WRITTEN ON REVISITING A FAVORITE HILL, 

A YEAB FROM SEPTEMBER, 18—. _ 



A YEAR, ago ! a year ago, 

Old hill, I climbed thy brow. 
But bearing not the heart of woe 

That beats within me now ! 

The blossoms of my summer bowers 
Lie withered 'neath my tread ; 

I <jare not for the faded flowers, 
My heart is with the dead. 

The dry leaves of the forest, fall 
So late with beauty crowned ; 

The greenwood's mantle, like a pall. 
Lies on the chilly ground. 

O o 



•o— o 

88 POEMS. 

Rude is the breeze that hurries by, 

And mournful is its tone, 
As on it beareth nature's sigh 

For brighter seasons flown. 

The time has been when scenes hke these 

Before my pensive view, 
My spirit seldom failed to please, 

The while they saddened too. 

And this is all; the time has been — 

/am still true to thee ; 
But thou, old hill, canst ne'er again 

Be what thou wert to me. 

Though stranger feet ere long shall press 

This hallowed turf of thine, 
I know I cannot love thee less 

Than "when I called thee mine. 

But round thee hovers now a gloom, 

It meets me every where, 
And whispers of the silent tomb. 

And one who slumbers there, 

'Tis not the gloom the passing year 

Flings over nature's face, 
O, would that only such were here 

In this deserted place. i 

I 

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POEMS 



-o 



89 



Ah ! no, 't is not her dying breath 
That saddens thus my mind, 

It is the gloom the feet of death 
Have darkly left behind. 

'Tis for no changes here I mom-n, 
Though sadly they have come ; 

'Tis for the greater, which have torn 
A cherished wreath of home ! 

O, Time ! the shadow of the wing 
Is dark, that beareth thee ; 

Alas ! that e'er thy flight should wrins 
Such bitter tears from me ! 




o- 



-o 



o- 



-o 



90 



POEMS 



TO A DOVE 



' O ! tliat I had wings like a dove, for then would I flee away and 
be al rest.' 

Beautiful dove ! O, beautifal dove ! 
Emblem of purity, peace, aud love ! 
O for thy wings to mount and fly 
AAvay, away in the azure sky I 

The gentle breeze of the balmy even 
Should bear me up to the stars of heaven, 
To the shining plains of the spirit-land, 
Where angels wander, a sinless band ; — 

Where never is spoken a farewell word, 
And the voice of sadness is never heard; 
Where swiftly roll the unnumbered years 
Untouched by sorrow, undimmed by tears. 

Wliere rest is found for the sons of clay, 
From the fair-haired child to the pilgrim gTay ; 
And peace, sweet peace, for the troubled soul, 
That shrinks from sin and its base conti'ol. 



o- 



O 



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POEMS. 91 

I long to be free from a sphere like this, 
As open before me such scenes of bliss ; 
The world is bright to us mortals given, 
And beautiful too, but it is not heaven ! 

It seems to vi^hisper of pale decay. 
And to write on its glories, ' passing away ; ' 
And the wounded spirit oft vainly grieves 
For hopes laid low like the autumn leaves. 

At morn we gaze on a cloudless sky, 
At eve the storm in its wrath sweeps by ; 
Thus rise the tempests of life's dark way, — 
Exposed to their fury, why wish to stay ? 

Earth's charms for a moment the soul begiiile, 
But ah I they are nought to the Saviour's smile, 
Nought to the joys unstained by sin, 
The ransomed soul through the cross may win. 

Beautiful dove I O beautiful dove ! 
Emblem of purity, peace, and love ! 

for thy wings to mount and fly 
Away, away in the azure sky ! 

"With a song of triumph sweet and loud, 

1 'd dip my wings in the snow-white cloud ; 
No fetters of earth should bind those wings, 
Or stain with the hues of earthly things. 

O 6 



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92 POEMS. 

But yet, the woiid I may not forsake, 
Ties bind me here that I cannot break, 
And sweetly fall on my raptured ear 
The tones of the voices I love to hear. 

And home ! dear home, and its quenchless joys. 
And love, that love of the world destroys ; 
And scenes, though sullied by many a stain, 
Still call me back to the earth again. 

But soon shall the waiting angel bring 
My summons home to my Saviour, King ; 
Then will I soar, from earth set free, 
Beautiful dove ! like thee ! like thee ! 




O O 



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POEMS. 93 



'I WILL GIVE MYSELF UNTO PEAYER.' 



To prayer! to prayer! the tempter's hand 

Hath spread a net to hire my feet ; 
Would'st thou, my soul, his might withstand? 

O liie thee to the mercy-seat. 
Pour forth in earnest tone thy voice, 

And ask for aid on supphant knee ; 
Then in thy Maker's grace rejoice 

O'er sin, that hath not conquered thee. 

To prayer ! to prayer ! the church of God 

Is shxmbering o'er her toil forgot, 
While stalks her direst foe abroad, 

And weaves destruction's fearful plot. 
On many a lofty wall and tower 

The watchman's warning trump is dumb ; 
Wake Zion, wake, for in this hour. 

Thy king to judgment forth may come. 



O O 



o^ 



o 



94r POEMS. 

To prayer! to prayer! from o'er the sea 

Where grossest errors hold their sway, 
Comes back the heathen's earnest plea 

For tidmgs of salvation's way. 
Who from these ranks of ours shall go, 

A guide to brighter worlds on high ; 
Would' st thou thy duty, Christian, know, 

Lift up thy voice, Lord, is it I ? 

To prayer ! to prayer ! the world around 

Hath evil hid in every place, 
And feet are treading holy ground 

That came not there through paths of grace. 
In Israel's army many fight 

With carnal weapons in their hands. 
And where her watch-fires fling their light, 

Ofttimes the prince of darkness stands. 

To prayer ! to prayer ! the time draws nigh 

When ye shall cease to toil and pray ; 
The angel's trump shall sound on high. 

And men to judgment pass away. 
Church of the living God ! arise. 

And do thy Master's holy will ; 
Plead for his grace with tears and cries 

Till every promise he fulfil. 



I 



o- 



-O 



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POEMS. 95 



THE GREENWOOD DEPTHS. 



! the greenwood depths are beautiful, 
When the tall and stately trees, 

La the summer's radiant foliage clad, 
Are swayed by the passing breeze. 

1 love them best in the evening hour. 
When the silver moon pours down 

A flood of light, from her censer bright, 
On the shadowy forest's crown. 

The soft breeze moans thro' the rustling trees, 

And the silvery brook afar. 
With a glad, clear tune, like a bird's in June, 

Leaps on where the rushes are. 

The cricket chirps in the old stone wall, 

Where the velvet mosses grow. 
And the earnest voice of the katy-did 

Responds from the turf below. 

O O 



o o 

96 POEMS. 

O ! tell me not of tlie loneliness 

Of the wood, nor call it drear, 
For a thousand, thousand living things 

To gladden its depths are here. 

Some pass me by on their pinions light, 
Through the trackless realms of air, 

And some repose on the bending flower, 
Their couch in its blossoms fair. 

Some hide in the twisted, grass-grown roots 

Of the lofty oak or pine ; 
And some in the bark of the old fir trees. 

Which the ivy tendrils twine. 

And the answering echoes of my soul 

Go forth at each joyous tone, 
"Which the humblest, tiniest creature pours 

In a language all its own. 

O ! greenwood depths ! ye are beautiful 

In the summer evening hour. 
And this wondering soul of mine ye thrill 

With a strange enchanting power. 

Nay, tell me not of the crowded halls, 

They are solitude to me ; 
And the sweetest notes of the harp are nought 

To the tones of nature free. 

o- o 



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POEMS. 97 



A TRIBUTE TO MY FATHER. 



Speak to me, Father ! by thy side 

In agony I stand, 
And on thy cold and marble brow 

I lay my trembling hand. 
O give me back bnt one fond word 

For these I freely pour, 
"Unclose those sealed white lips of thine : 

My Father ! speak once more ! 



Thou canst not : wildly rings my voice 

Through this deserted room, 
Wliere evening shades are mingling fast 

With death's still darker gloom. 
Thou heedest not my presence here, 

Chained to this fearful spot ; 
And the white drapery o'er thee flung, 

Thy bosom heaveth not. 



o- O 



o- 



98 



-o 



POEMS 



Thou canst not speak : down to thy lips 

In vain my form I bow ; 
Ah ! if thou could' St, how would I plead 

For thy forgiveness now ! 
As memory's glowing light dispels 

The shadows of the past, 
And errors, like some storm's dark clouds. 

Come rising thick and fast. 



The sound of childhood's distant mirth 

Is echoing in mine ear ; 
The tones of those, my Father, once 

To thee who were so dear. 
But drearily rings out their joy, 

'Tis sad to hear their glee ; 
For, O, they reck not of the change 

That death hath wrought in thee. 



They have been here and gazed awhile 

Upon thy breathless clay, 
Till awed by death's dark work they stole 

With noiseless steps away ; 
They turned in silence from the scene, 

A wondering heart to bear, 
They knew thee not in thy cold sleep. 

There was no father there. 



o- 



-O 



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POEMS. 99 

How strange the contrast, as they stood 

A moment by thy side ! 
Swift through their youthful veins swept on 

Life's warm inspiring tide ; 
The roses bloomed upon their cheeks, 

That health's bright fingers twine ; 
The blood lay frozen in thy veins, 

The lily's hue was tliine ! 



They turned away ; and O how soon 

Their sorrow was forgot ; 
But ah, this transient April grief 

Is childhood's envied lot. 
And it is well they lightly feel 

The change that lays thee low, 
Blest are they in their fleeting grief, 

Alas ! mine is not so ! 



Now youth and opening manhood come 

The mourner's tears to shed. 
Hush ! 't is the fatherless who weep 

Around the silent dead. 
Ay, fatherless ; for he who lies 

So statue-like and still. 
No more the honored place of sire 

To these dear ones shall fill. 



O O 



o- 



100 



-o 



POEMS 



And who is she with faltering step, 

Who draweth nigh the bier, 
Whose smitten heart pours freely forth 

Its bitter waters here ? 
She, who hath trod, my sire, with thee, 

Life's path in hope and love. 
Left in her loneliness below 

To weep for thee above. 



How will she miss thee from her side 

As days shall come and go, 
And hours that once to thee were given 

Hang heavy, passing slow. 
How will she listen for thy step. 

Look for thy well-known face 
And greeting at the social board. 

In thy famiHar place ! 



How shall we miss thee every where, — 

At morn, and noon, and eve, — 
How desolate will be the home 

Thou art compelled to leave. 
How vainly for thy coming, oft 

Shall our young spirits yearn ; 
Alas ! who goeth to the grave 

Can never back return. 



o- 



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POEMS. 101 

They leave thee now ; and dies away- 
Each sob, and sigh, and moan, 

And the Avild music of my harp 
Is echoing here alone. 

I did not dream, when last I woke 
Its melody in glee. 

The next should be a requiem strain, 
A dirge, a dhge for thee ! 



How swiftly pass these moments by, 

So sad, and yet so dear; 
They are the last that I shall spend. 

My father, with thee here. 
The grave shall shut thee from my view, 

And darkness o'er thee fling, 
Aad from thy burial sod, the flower 

And bending grass shall spring. 



But see, methinks thy bosom heaves 

Yon white robe gently now. 
And hues of life steal swiftly o'er 

Thy pallid lips and brow ! 
Ah, no ! 't is but the feverish dream 

Of my distempered brain. 
Death's cold embrace enfolds thee still. 

The dead move not again. 



O O 



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102 POEMS. 

And hark ! the tramp of heavy feet 

"Warns me I must away, 
They come to fit thee for the tomb, 

In all its dread array. 
I leave thee here, — no more, no more 

On thy dear face to gaze, — 
O, memory ! grasp his image now, 

To bear through coming days ! 



'Tis done, my father! thou hast left 

Forever thine abode, 
Tlie fireside, and the shrine that late 

With home's bright sunshine glowed. 
Thou hast departed, but O not 

As oft for many years. 
The hearse bears thee before us now, 

We follow on in tears. 



Slow moves the funeral train along 

By hill and field, whose sod, 
At morn, or noon, or dewy eve. 

Thy feet have often trod; 
O ! how these scenes familiar bring 

The quick tears to my eye. 
And wound anew my anguished heart, — 

Joy ! we have passed them by I 



O O 



o_ o 

POEMS. 103 

Hark ! hark ! there strikes upon mine ear 

The church-bell's heavy toll, 
Is it for thee its solemn notes 

In mournful cadence roll ? 
Oft have I heard the sounds before — 

So measured, sad, and slow; 
But, O ! they never, never brought, 

As now, such utter woe. 



That thou art gone, forever gone, 

The thrilling music tells, 
And every breeze that hurries by, 

The echo louder s"wells. 
Not on thine ears, my father, break 

The burial knell's deep sounds ; 
Thou heedest, hearest nought, within 

The cof&n's narrow bounds. 



Now draw we nigh the place where earth 

Receives her sacred trust, 
"Where mouldering clay sleeps undisturbed, 

And dust returns to dust. 
Through the still regions of the dead, 

A weeping train we pass. 
And trembling feet press heedless down 

The long untrodden grass. 



O O 



o ^ o 

104 POEMS. 

Is this dark cell, my father, this 

Thy only dwelling now ? 
Art thou a tenant of the tomb, 

A dreamless sleeper, thou? 
And must we leave thee here, where love 

May no fond tributes bring ; 
Where home's glad light can never shine, 

Nor home's sweet voices ring ? 



Must we depart, and leave thee here 

In this deserted spot. 
Among these shrouded coffined forms, 

Who see thee, hear thee not. 
They will not welcome thee, alas ! 

There are no greetings here ; 
The dead can give not smile for smile. 

Can shed not tear for tear ! 



They are thy mute companions now, 

These children of decay. 
And thou art slumbering in their midst, 

Thyself as mute as they. 
In days gone by, their friendship words 

Oft in thine ear were breathed ; 
Ay, for with some thy trusting heart 

Affection's garland wreathed. 



O — ■ • O 



o o 

POEMS. 105 

Crushed is that garland, and those words 

Lost in oblivion's tide ; 
And here, where thou hast followed them, 

We leave thee by their side 
And pass away, — O ! now we drink 

Affliction's bitterest wave, 
And feel her keenest agony, — 

We leave thee in the grave ! 



But peace, be still my murmuring heart, 

Deem not the promise vain. 
The resurrection morn shall break. 

The dead shall rise again ! 
And thou shalt come, my father, forth 

Triumphant from the tomb ; 
Thy long unconscious dust, receive 

Immortal life and bloom. 



Farewell ! till then we give thee up ; 

His holy will be done. 
Who sent to thee his angel, death. 

Thou dear departed one ! 
A little while, and we who weep 

E'en as thou art shall be. 
O, who of ics shall Jirst put on 

The shroud, to sleep with thee ! 



O o 



O — o 

106 POEMS. 



What M sepaiate the Disciple of Christ from his Love? 



Tribulation — say, canst thou 

From the love of Christ divide, 
From his path, I travel now, 

Turn my feeble feet aside ? 
Bitter woes and pangs of thine 

May with keenest anguish wring, 
Yet to Christ this soul of mine. 

Thou shalt but the closer bring. 



Persecution — fierce, severe. 

From the blessed Saviour's love. 
Canst thou fright my spirit here. 

That hath treasured all above ? 
Comest thou by fire or sword, 

I can meet and smile at thee ; 
Mine, the strong arm of the Lord, 

Thou canst never conquer me. 



o o 



o o 

POEMS. 107 

Famine — with thy fearful train 

Of those horrors none can tell, 
Is thy dreaded might in vain 

Here to break love's sacred spell ? 
Lo ! on heavenly bread I feed, 

Never shall I faint and die ; 
'Tis my life, and life indeed ! 

Famine, I thy might defy. 



Peril — on the raging deep, 

Canst thou shake my trusting soul, 
When the wildest tempests sweep. 

And the liighest billows roll ? 
Hark ! my Saviour's voice I hear. 

Hides not night liis glorious form ; 
He is nigh, and doubt and fear 

Vanish with the dying storm. 



Powers of earth, and powers of hell, 

Ye can ne'er my soul divide. 
By temptation's wrath or spell. 

From the love of Him who died. 
Death will but the firmer make 

Ties that never can be riven ; 
Joy ! for then my soul shall take 

Wings, to sing that love in heaven ! 



O O 



o o 

108 POEMS. 



GRAVE OE AN INDIAN CHIEF. 



A chieftain's grave ! 
Deep in the wildwood — lonely, dark, and drear — 
A red man of the forest slnmbers here ; 

Whose arm the death-blow gave, 
In savage might, to many a pale-faced foe, 
Whose dust alike lies in the green earth low. 

Meet burial-place 
Is this for one like him who fills it now, 
Beneath the dark shade of the hemlock's bough ; 

The pine trees interlace. 
Shutting out all the life-like glare of day, 
Save here and there a faint and fl.eetiug ray. 

The night dews fall, 
And fill till, eve returns, the pale flower's cup, 
Save when the bee the pearly draught drinks up, 

Where the green moss her pall 
Of shining velvet fondly strives to spread 
O'er the hushed relics of the mighty dead. 

o ^ — — -o 



o o 

POEMS. 109 

The silver stream 
Winds thro' the dell, with softly murmuring sound, 
As though the spot were consecrated ground ; 

And the fleet wild deer seem. 
While hurrying by the undisturbed retreat, 
To press the soft, greensward with lighter feet. 

On the still air 
Ring out no joyous voices ; seldom heard 
Is the sweet strain of bright-eyed beauteous birds, 

And flitting unaware 
Thither, the golden butterfly turns back, 
Till the warm sunshine cheers his gloomy track. 

The sheltering vine, 
A shadowy arch high o'er the sleeper weaves. 
Of purple fruit, mingled with broad, dark leaves ; 

And its fond tendrils twine 
Around the cold gray headstone, as it stands 
Rude monument reared by unskilful hands. 

The breezes change 
Their glad, light tune to one of mournful note, 
As o'er the warrior's resting-place they float 

Through the tall, stately range 
Of trees, whose dark boughs, sweeping to and fro, 
Make dirge -like music for the dead below. 



O o 



o o 

110 POEMS. 

Far distant roars 
A mighty cataract, furious waters form ; 
Like tlie hoarse mutterings of some coming storm 

Its wrathful thunder pours : 
But all unheeded ; like sound's feeblest breath 
Fall the loud echoes on the ear of death. 

Springs come and wane, 
And summer gales, scent-laden, rustle by ; 
Green leaves, bright flowers 'neath autumn's cold 
touch die ; 

And snow, and icy rain — 
Stern winter's gifts — fall on the charnel-spot 
Of the dead chieftain, but he marks them not. 

O ! can it be, 
That he who fills tliis lowly burial-place, 
Was the proud leader of the mighty race, 

That roamed unchecked and free 
Tlirough the deep forest, o'er the wide-spread 

plain, 
Children of nature, owning but her reign ! 

First in the fray. 
Bravest among the brave in wildest strife, 
Last to desert the field with slaughter rife. 

Mighty in council day, 
Pouring in savage ears the soul's deep strains, 
Was he of whom, but dust, mute dust remains. 

C O 



o o 

POEMS. Ill 

Strong is thine arm, 
O death ! from life's gay, busy realms, to bear 
Down to the grave's lone darkness and despair 

Proud man ; and swift to calm 
The wild, high beatings of his feverish heart, 
Is the cold anguish of thy fearful dart. 

The dust is tliine, — 
Heaven's is the spirit, — and the lofty name 
It leaves behind, perchance in hsts of fame, 

Em-olled shall brightly shine. 
Till Time's dark hand, of future moments born. 
Blots out the record frail — then all is gone. 

Sleep ! chieftain, sleep. 
While yet thou may est, for the white man's plough 
Shall soon the smooth turf where thou restest now 

Rend, furrowing deep ; 
And, from the levelled forest's bosom riven. 
Heave up thy relics to the glare of heaven ! 



O O 



o o 

112 POEMS, 



ABB OT SF ORD. 



It da^vned on our vision, a beautiful spot, 
The home of the poet, the dwelling of Scott; 
And we thought, as we entered its precincts 

profound, 
"We were treading where genius had hallowed 

I the ground. 

And the tiniest "viald-flower that sprang at our feet 
Seemed hloommg with fragrance more sacred 

j and s"\veet. 

I 

j 'Twas a quaint massive building, yet stately in 

I form ; 

1 Though rude, it was noble, with naught to deform ; 

i And many a turret reared graceful and liigh 

\ Its storm-beaten brow to the blue-arcliing sky ; 
The gate of Old Tolbooth was hung in the wall, 
And the marble dog Maida guarded the hall* 

I * The strong iron portal of the old Tolbooth Jail, so renowned in the 

I ' Heart of Mid Lothian,' was presented to Sir Walter Scott, and by him 

; firmly secured high up in the stone-work of the outside of his house, 

where it may slill be seen. The statue of Maida, a favorite dog of the 

Poet's, finely sculptured in marble, seems guarding the entrance. 

o- — o 




It dawTLe.ioTi our s'ijvon a. liSauLtiful spot. 
The h-om-R of the foet. ihe .Iwemng of Scott. 

,^ 1:2 



o o 

POEMS. 113 

We entered with feelings that deepened to awe, 
As the treasures the bard had collected Ave saw ; 
There were knights in their armors and battle array, 
But the lord of their castle was silent as they ; 
There was many a relic, all rusty and old, 
Yet dearer by far to his spirit, than gold. 

But, O I not a sight to our eyes was so dear, 

Or woke as a tribute a holier tear. 

Than the room which they sought with a softher 

tread. 
And whispered, the way as they thitherward led : 
'Twas there that the poet had wielded the pen 
That made him immortal forever with men. 

It stood as the bard had deserted it last. 

And the speU of his presence seemed over it cast ; 

There had naught been removed from its sacred 

repose. 
The hand not a volume had dared to unclose ; 
The table, the footstool were standing, and there, 
All empty beside them, his favorite chair I 

'Twas here that liis spirit held, purely and free, 
Her closest communion, sweet fancy, with thee ; 
'T was here for the highland, and here for the plain, 
And the silvery lake, that he warbled a strain 
No child of Old Scotia will ever forget, 
For her blue hills are full of the melody yet. 

10* 

o- O 



o- 



o 



114 



We had gazed on the seat where, in days of 

renown, 
They brought to the monarch lais sceptre and 

crown. 
Where great men had Ungered and warriors bled; 
But, O ! not a charm on the moment was shed 
Enchanting as that which our fond bosoms thrilled 
As we gazed on the chair which the minstrel had 

filled. 

Sweet Abbotsford ! home of the Poet ! to thee 
Our spirits oft rove in their wanderings free, 
And radiant scenes in the vision appear 
To fond recollection still sacred and dear ; 
But, O ! we have treasured as holiest there, 
That dim-lighted study, that favorite chair I 




o- 



-O 



o o 

POEMS. 115 



SING NOT TO ME THAT SONG AGAIN. 



Sing not to me that song again, 

I heard it long ago ; 
And she who sung me last the strain 

Lies in the churchyard low. 

Her voice I never can forget, 

I loved its tone so well ; 
Its sweet enchantment lingers yet, 

Break not, break not the spell. 

The shades of eve were falling fast 

On floweret, shrub, and tree. 
And twilight's veil was o'er her cast, 

Who sung that song to me. 

The sounds upon the soft, still air, 

E-ose like a swelling tide ; 
Then, borne by breezes sweeping there. 

Far in the distance died. 

O o 



o o 

116 POEMS. 

I stood beside her, and the hght 

Of hope was on her brow ; 
For life too fair, for death too bright, 

But, O ! where is it now ? 

I knew not why, for there was nought 

To make me else than glad ; 
But while my ear her music caught. 

My heart grew strangely sad. 

Ah ! little then I dreamed, that ere 

My riper years should come, 
I o'er her grave should shed a tear, 

And sigh for her at home. 

For soon disease stole o'er her frame, 
And life's bright fountains dried ; 

Heaven's angel with the summons came, 
The loved musician died. 

But I again shall hear her sing, 

Shall see her form again ; 
And sweeter shall her music ring. 

And holier be her strain. 

O ! oft do those we love, awake 

Melodious music here ; 
Then earth's frail cords asunder break. 

And seek a purer sphere. 

6— ^ o 



o o 

POEMS. 117 

And when we hear those songs again, 
Though many years have fled, 

Fond memory wakens with the strain 
The image of the dead. 

It bids om' mourning hearts rejoice, 

And chilled affections warm ; 
We start to hear a stranger's voice. 

And see a stranger's form. 

Thus is it when those numbers flow. 
There comes before mine eyes 

One whom I cherished once below, 
But now above the skies. 

I cannot bear to have my heart 

The sweet illusion feel, 
Then "wiithe 'neath disappointment's smart, 

Unwelcome truths reveal. 

Then hushed, O let that music be, 

I heard it long ago ; 
And she who woke it last for me 

Lies in the churchyard low. 

When coming years have passed, and lain 

A blight on memory's brow, 
O ! I may love that song again, 

I cannot hear it 7iow ! 

o~ —6 



o o 

118 POEMS. 



JUNE 



O, sing me a song for the month of June, 

Wlien Hnnet and robin their hearts attune ; 

I care not now for the April sky, 

When thejclouds sweep fast, and the winds blow 

liigh ; 
I care not now for the budding May, 
"When the grass springs fii'st where the streamlets 

play; 
When the half-oped blossom that greets liis eyes, 
The child bears home as a costly prize ; 
A sun with a steadier beam for me, 
And a darker robe for the shadowy tree, 
A deeper green for the winding vale. 
And a rosier hue for the floweret pale. 
A song, a song for the month of June, 
When linnet and robin their harps attune, 
When the young bird comes at the old bird's call, 
From his lofty nest to the low stone wall. 
Then plumes his wings for a bolder flight. 
And proudly stoops from his airy height ; — 

O o 



o o 

POEMS. 119 

When the glowworm walks by her fitful lamp, 

"Where the gray owl hoots in the meadow damp, 

And the saucy voice of the martin, rings 

From the bam- eaves high, where he sits and sings 

Or chatters fierce, as he buUds his nest, 

At the swallow, clad in his yellow vest 

And dark-blue coat, who the barn within 

Maintains his right with perpetual din. 

When, the haunts of the wintry days forsook, 

The glad frog sings by the sunny brook, 

And children oft to the margin come 

To mock the sound of his voice so grum, 

Or praise the hue of his glossy throat. 

And the pohsh bright of his mottled coat ; — 

When the serpent creeps from his dark abode 

To sun himself in the sandy road. 

Or bend with his shining folds the grass. 

Where the timid maiden shrinks to pass ; 

When the green fields wave like the rufEed'sea 

As the breezes sweep o'er their bosom free, — 

When casements are open and doors are ajar, 

And the scent of the red rose is wafted afar : 

When the school-boy turns from liis wearisome 

page, 
The deeds of the hero, the lore of the sage. 
And wishfully gazes on pleasures forbidden. 
Red fruit, by the foliage fitfully hidden. 
And the green shady banks of the silvery pool, 
And wonders what mortal invented a school; 

o 6 



o- 



-o 



120 



Then bending his elbows hangs over his book 
With a muttering tone and a half sullen look. 
When the invalid sits in his pillowed chair, 
And his limbs are braced by the fresh pure air, 
And the hue of health o'er his pale cheek steals, 
And his dim eye lights with the joy he feels. 
O ! well do I love thee, beautiful June ! 
The sweet, sweet harps which thy minstrels tune; 
Though other months may the bosom thrill, 
As I love thee now I will love thee stiU. 




o- 



-o 



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POEMS. 121 



THE RUmS OF CRAIGIILIAR CASTLE, SCOTLAND. 



Tell its, lonely ruin, tell — 
Where are those whose footsteps fell 
Once upon thy mouldering floors, 
Entered once thy hingeless doors ? 
Monarch, minstrel, monk, and lord, 
Champion of the spear and sword, 
He who filled the wine-cup high. 
Dreamed not man was born to die ? 



Can'st thou give no answer? Lo, 
Yonder graves triumphant show, 
Where have gone that mighty train, 
Who shall ne'er return again. 
Youth's fresh beauty, manhood's prime, 
Faded at the touch of Time ; 
These, in sternly withering, he 
Left thee not unscathed and free. 

u 

O O 



o 

i 122 



-o 



Oil thy damp and blackened wall 
Spreads the moss her velvet pall ; 
And thy battlements are drest 
With the wa^diig ivy's crest; 
In thy conrts where bloomed the rose, 
Now the grass untrodden grows ; 
Peeping from its tufts between 
Oft the timid hare is seen. 



Lonely ruin ! warning thou, 
That the sons of earth must bow 
Meekly to their mortal doom, 
Cliildren of the shroud and tomb ; 
And to gorgeous piles, that rise 
Near thee, towering to the skies ; 
Ruin, thou dost seem to say. 
Ye like me shall pass away ! 




o- 



-O 



o o 

POEMS. 123 



SEMPER EADEM. 



Semper. Eadem — always the same, 

Say, is it so with thee ? 
Will others never the tnie love claim 

Thou sayest thou hast for me ? 

Wlien far away from the voice, that now 

Falls soft on thy gentle ear, 
"Will never be broken the friendship vow 

Thou hast breathed so often here ? 

When hope shall smile and her flowers upspring 

In beauty around thy path. 
And stem adversity turns his wing 

Aside in his softened wrath ; 

And envy pours in thy captive ear 

A false but a honeyed song. 
Shall affection's bonds be riven ne'er 

That have bound our hearts so long ? 

o . .. o 



o o 

124 POEMS. 

And when old Time in his onward track, 

With his pinions fleet and free, 
To the scenes of thy childhood brings thee back, 

Wilt thou then still faithful be ? 

If change have come o'er the golden dream 

Of thy early by-gone days. 
Say, O say, wilt thou still esteem. 

Where nought may be left to praise ? 

Shall I find thee then the same, the true, 

As in years forever gone ; 
When our love no blight and no coldness knew. 

And our friendship had no thorn ? 

O, yes ! for I cannot false believe 

The words which thy fond lips speak, 

Though the words of mortals oft deceive 
When they be not fe"w or weak. 

Though the tones of others soft may fall 

On my ear, yet treacherous be. 
And their hearts prove faithless, one and all, 

I can have no fears for thee. 

Truth's seal is bright on thy open brow, 

And the world shall dim it never ; 
As thou art Semper Eadem now, 

Even so shalt thou be forever ! 

6 O 



o o 

POEMS. 125 



NINE O^CLOCK. 



'Tis nine o'clock! 'tis nine o'clock! 

The distant bell is ringing ; 
Its music from the village spire 

The winter wind is bringing. 
'Tis nine o'clock! 'tis nine o'clock! 

Away with books and papers ; 
Heap ashes on the blazing turf, 

And quench the burning tapers. 



'Tis nine o'clock! the husbandman 

Is dreaming o'er liis labors, 
And long ere this hath said ' good night ' 

To all his drowsy neighbors. 
Has faithful dog with cautious step 

Around the house is howling; 
As watching ceaselessly he hears 

The stealthy robber prowUng. 



O o 



o o 

126 POEMS. 

'Tis nine o'clock ! the city fops 

In lighted halls assemble, 
Or seek the crowded theatre, 

And welcome Fanny Kemble ; 
Or greet with rapturous applause, 

Mazeppa's wondrous prances ; 
Or hail the stage, illumined, where 

The ' Ansel Essler ' dances. 



O, foolish love of foolish fame, 

O, strange infatuation, 
That woman e'er should thus degrade 

Her nature's noble station ; 
That man, the image of his God, 

In such a cause should cheer her, 
Disdaining those superior charms 

Alone that should endear her. 



'Tis nine o'clock! impatient clerks 

A thousand keys are turning, 
With hearts for merry * fracases,' 

All through the evening yearning. 
And to and fro move on the crowd. 

With elbows sharply nudging. 
And rosy-cheeked apprentice girls 

By scores are homeward trudging. 



O O 



o o 

POEMS. 127 

The loafer hopes to rest his limbs 

Where none may roughly handle, 
Has downy couch the cellar door, 

The moon his silver candle ; 
He hears the coming watchman's step, 

But slumbers o'er the warning, 
"While ' Charley ' kindly makes his bed 

The watchhouse floor till morning ! 



'Tis nine o'clock! the weary muse 

Is nodding o'er her numbers. 
As if she fain awhile would lose 

Herself in gentle slumbers. 
Parnassus' ever rugged heights 

Have stretched their chasms wider ; 
Pegasus roams at large, for, lo ! 

The steed hath lost his rider ! 



'T is nine o'clock ! they say that sleep 

Will overcome the senses. 
And oft a wakeful man subdue. 

In spite of all defences. 
It must be so, for o'er me fast 

I feel it coming • stronger. 

To bed I I '11 torture poetry 

To-night, at least, no longer ! 



O — O 



o- 



-o 



128 



POEMS 



TO A BLIGHTED OAK 



Unclad as in the wintry days 

Upon the green hill's brow, 
Oak ! mighty oak of many years, 

Say, wherefore standest thou ? 
Thy kindred rear their crested heads, 

In summer's bloom arrayed. 
And cast upon the flowery turf 

Beneath, a grateful shade. 



The wild bird warbles forth her strain 

From out their sheltering leaves, 
And in the clefts of mossy limb 

Her tiny dwelling weaves. 
Not on thy branches drear and bare 

She folds her joyous wings, 
Not from thy bosom, lonely oak, 

Her song melodious rings. 



O^ 



-O 



o o 

POEMS. 129 

A few brief months have wrought a change, 

A mournful change m thee, 
And shorn thee of thy lovehness, 

Thou smitten forest tree. 
Thou had'st a lofty tribute once 

From every passer by ; 
But no-\v the traveller heeds thee not, 

Or ffives thee but a sigh. 



Whence came this change ? the hghtning's flash 

Scathed not thy glorious form, 
Here hast thou battled many years 

Successful with the storm. 
The chilling snow, the driving hail, 

Gave not thy fearful blight, 
Nor strong wmds hurled thy giant boughs 

Down from theh dizzy height. 



'Tis not that spring, while passing by, 

Forgot to waken thee 
From wintry slumbers, when she roused 

The field, and flower, and tree. 
Tliey sprang to life beneath her touch, 

And broke their icy chain ; 
But though she lingered by thee long. 

Thou would' st not bloom asrain. 



O o 



o- 



-o 



130 



'Tis not the ruthless axe hath sought 

To stretch thee on the soil, 
But wearied left thee in the midst 

Of half completed toil. 
No ; in thy oaken bosom Ues 

Thy secret of decay, 
The fell destroyers lurk within, 

That gnaw thy Hfe away. 



The voice of summer calleth thee 

To bud and blossom now, 
And gentle zephyrs softly sweep 

Along each leafless bough. 
This beauteous world of ours is wreathed 

In vernal bloom and smiles. 
But, ah ! thy lonely barrenness 

The lovely scene defiles. 



I would that thou had'st died, old oak, 

I would that thou had'st died. 
Smote by a fiery bolt from heaven. 

E'en in thy strength and pride. 
For thou art like, all, all alone 

In blighted hope and bloom ; 
The heart that loves not, is not loved, 

And only waits the tomb. 



o- 



-O 



o- o 

POEMS. 131 



THE WORLD OP THE REAL. 



The world of the real, the world of the true, 
The path that leads laither my feet would pursue ; 
There tears never fall from the sorrowing eye, 
Nor cherished hopes blossom to wither and die. 

There friendship ne'er gathers the mouldering rust 
Of soul-clailling absence or colder distrust ; 
But glows with a bright and a beautiful ray, 
"Whose lustre fades never, no never away. 

There treachery comes not to wound with her thorn, 
Nor penury sluinks from refusal and scorn ; 
But truth standeth forth in her purity free, 
And wealth is as boundless and deep as the sea. 

There darken the woes of captivity never. 
All fetters are broken, and broken forever ; 
They hear not the clanking of tyranny's chains. 
Where freedom, sweet freedom, eternally reigns. 

O ■ O 



o- 



132 



No sin ever enters that region sublime, 
By stiife undisturbed, unpolluted by crime ; 
The righteous are ne'er by the wicked distressed, 
And the feeble and weary are gathered to rest. 

They hollow no graves in that beautiful sod, 
By the feet of the mourner its turf is ne'er trod; 
The quivering lip never utters farewell. 
For the sorrows of parting the bosom ne'er swell. 

Life never grows weary with years and vnlh. care, 
Tho' they are immortal whose dwelling is there ; 
The ages unnumbered, as onward they roll, 
Ai"e ever increasmg the bliss of the soul. 

That Avorld is not ours, that world is not ours ; 
There ai'e clouds with our sunshine aiad thorns 

with our flowers ; 
Hopes brightest deceive, and ties dearest are 

riven. 
Earth is the ideal — tlie real is heaven. 




o- 



-o 



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POEMS. 133 



THE MINSTREL AND THE WARRIOR. 



Thus the lyre a minstrel sweeping, 
Charmed a youthful warrior's ear ; 

Woke the love of glory sleeping, 
Bade him scorn affection's tear. 

Haste thee, warrior ! haste to glory, 

'Mid the battle's mighty throng; 
Lo, thy valor burns in story I 

Lo, it fires the poet's song. 

Cast no lingering look behind thee. 

Mount thy steed, away ! away ! 
Let yon quailing legions find thee, 

Foremost in the fearful fray. 

"What though lone thy bride may languish ? 

Absence presence more endears ; 
Stay not for a fleeting anguish. 

Tarry not for woman's tears. 

12 

O , O 



o o 

134 POEMS. 

Seal her lips with love's sweet token, 

Seal them till thy proud returu ; 
Gloomy words those lips have spoken, 

Glory's wreath have bade thee spurn. 

"Warrior ! would'st thou find it ever? 

On the plain it waits thee now ; 
In thy mountain-castle never 

Shall its beauties gild thy brow. 

Mid the smoke that shrouds the battle, 
Ever must that wreath be sought; 

"Where yon flashing weapons rattle, 
Is the shining trophy wrought. 

"Wlien the morrow spreads her pinions, 

Let the ruby \\ane be poured ; 
Thou, the pride of Spain's dominions. 

Thine, the victor's festal board. 

Hark ! the battle trump is sounding ; 

Press thy spur and loose thy rein : 
Hosts thy standard proud surrounding, 

"Wait thee on the crowded plain. 

Hark ! the cannon's awful thunder 

Echoes to the vaulted sky ; 
Mail-clad ranks are rent asunder, 

Bafiled foes unnumbered fly. 

b o 



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POEMS. 



-o 



105 



Haste thee, warrior ! haste to glory, 
Mid the battle's mighty throng ; 

Lo ! thy valor burns in story ! 
Lo ! it fires the poet's song. 

Thus his zeal the minstrel heightened, 
Fired for glory's fleeting breath ; 

Evening faded, morning brightened, 
Sans; the bard the warrior's death ! 




o- 



-o 



o o 

136 POEMS. 



THE SLAYERS DREAM. 



Slow waned tlie day; the southern sun went 

down, 
"Without one cloud to borrow or to dim. 
His dying splendor ; and the evening breeze, 
Shedding sweet odor from her viewless wings, 
The grateful floweret on her pathway flung, 
Swept to and fro, and stirred the rustling tops 
Of the wide rice fields, laden with the fruit 
Of human toil, exacted 'neath the bonds 
Brothers on brothers, in their impious might. 
Have dared impose. 

A weary slave, bent o'er 
His daily task, stood up erect, to gaze, 
A few brief moments, on the glorious scene 
Of eve, triumphant o'er departing day. 
Sad thoughts stole o'er him, thoughts of far off 

lands, 
More beautiful and bright than aught spread out 
Around him ; and whose fresh, sweet memory 

6 O 



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POEMS. 137 

Long years of bondage, deprivation, woe. 
Had failed to dim ; but oh ! how many suns 
E,ising had seen him exiled and in chains. 
And left him as the last was leaving then. 
More painful grew his musings, and his soul 
Breathed heavier sighs; while down his sable 

cheeks 
Tears, bitter tears, in rapid silence rolled. 
O'ercome with anguish, on the warm, soft earth 
His form he threw, and from his hand dropped 

down 
The implement of toil ; while blessed sleep. 
Folding her noiseless pinions on his breast, 
Brought brief forge tfulness of earthly woe, 
Hopeless and deep. 

Then treacherous Fancy came, 
To paint in life-like colors, all too true, 
The glowing landscape of his Afric home. 
The bright-shelled beach, the rugged rocks, the 

hills. 
The palmy groves, where spicy breezes play, 
And golden sunbeams flicker, and rich fruits, 
Hanging profusely from the bending bough. 
Tempt the parched lip to press their cooling rind. 
The flowery fields, the proudly winding Mle, 
The lofty mountains and the desert sands, 
Which here and there a burdened camel trod ; 
But most of all, the rude yet peaceful cot, 

12* 

6 o 



o 



■o 



138 



Where dwelt in freedom all he loved on earth. 
Joy thrilled his breast, joy long unfelt, unknown ; 
For these he deemed as real, and his years 
Of bonds the offspring of a mocking dream, 
Roused from whose spell, he paced exultingly 
The ocean shore, bearing his fisher's net ; 
And poured his spirit forth in stirring words, 
As if 't were fearful but to dream of chains. 

Joy ! joy ! for I am free ! 
Free as yon mighty waves, that proudly sweep, 
Up-rising from their caverns dark and deep. 

Far o'er the swelling sea. 
From strand to strand, imfettered, on they roam, — 
I, too, am chainless in my native home. 

Free as the air I breathe. 
That from yon waste of waters, cool and fresh, 
Is softly stealing o'er my feverish flesh, 

My brow, whose brain beneath 
Late reeled with visions of terrific things, 
Whose fearful echo in my ear still rings. 



I own no ruler, save 
The God who made this vast and beauteous world, 
And freedom's banner o'er its realms unfurled, 

That long hath ceased to wave ; 
Where dark oppression rears her pennon high, 
Blood-stained and dire beneath a Christian sky. 



o- 



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POEMS. 139 

The past ! what hath it been ? 
A troubled sleep, whose dream of terror still 
Would fain with horror my bold spirit fiU ; 

That scorns remembrance e'en, 
Of aught that but in fancy dared to bind ' 
The godlike mansion of the godlike mind. 

I dreamed that late I saw 
My own loved cot in ruins, and the light 
Of lurid flames disclosed, O God ! the sight 

Of bleeding bodies ; for 
Avarice and death had my sweet home defiled, 
Slaying the mother with her helpless child, 

I dreamed that white men bore 
Me from my native land, as some rich spoil, 
Far o'er the ocean, doomed a slave, to toil 

Upon a foreign shore : 
A slave, and yet a man, 'neath man's control ; 
With all his pride, ay, more, with all his soul ! 

I dreamed the loathsome scourge 
Fell on my frame, and, oh I the pangs it wrought ! 
'Twas not the pain, — the agony it brought 

Was great, yet failed to urge 
Like shame the passions in my breast that slept, 
To life and light so wildly then that leapt. 



o ^ — o 



o o 

140 POEMS. 

I dreamed this neck of mine, 
These hands, these feet, were heavy, and with 

what ? 
Chains ! forged and riveted by fellow mortals ! but 

Freedom, O soul, was thine, 
Sending up cries for heaven's avenging rod, — 
Judgment and justice from the living God. 

But the dark scenes have fled ; 
Hushed is the tumult late my breast that swelled ; 
Broken the bitter cup, that fancy held 

Long to my lips ; the dead, 
The cherished dead, are hving, and I bow 
To the strong arm of no oppressor now. 

Hark ! hark ! the winding shell, 
Deep in the bosom of yon shadowy groves. 
Where by his fitful torch the fhe-fly roves, 

And birds bright plumaged dwell. 
Calls me : I go ; the loved wait there for me, — 
Begone, foul dream! we yet are safe and free. 

Forth leaped, loud answering to the summons 

sweet. 
Fancy's deluded victim ; light as one 
Who treads on air, the smooth and shining sands. 
The rugged rocks, old ocean's bounds, were left 
Far, far behind him ; and the palmy groves 
Drew nearer, whence the winding shell gave out 

o 6 



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POEMS. 141 

Still louder music; when strange weakness seized 
Each straining limb, and o'er the glorious goal 
Of hope's aspiring, love's unwavering aim, 
Gathered dark mists, darker than night's own 

gloom. 
The struggling spirit chafed, and strove to pour 
New life and vigor through the failing frame. 
But vainly ; and the scene around seemed changed, 
All, all unlike his own bright, beauteous land. 
Strange sounds fell on his startled ear, and jarred 
His feverish brain ; 't was not the voice of love, 
Home's thrilling welcome ; not the silvery tone 
Of ocean shell, that soft, sweet music wakes. 
A voice, where had he heard it ? in his dream, 
His wild, dark dream, rang in his ears again, 
The voice of him whose heel hath trodden down 
God's noble image in the grovelling dust 
For gold, cursed gold : a hell-born lust demands, 
* Up, up ! base dog ! what ! darest thou to sleep, 
Sleep at thy toil, a slave ! Ho ! up or die ! ' 
Then through the circling air was loudly heard 
The shrill, sharp music of the sounding lash, 
Descending swiftly, while its victim raised 
"Up to his brow his fettered hand, to shut 
Out from the soul the still imagined scene. 
That fettered hand I the clanking of the chains 
That bound it, roused to life the slumbering soul, 
Till in its burning agony it cried, 
As stern reality flashed lightnmg-like 

o o 



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142 



POEMS 



Upon the mists of sleep, that rolled away, 
' 0, God ! to dream of freedom., and to icake 
In chains ! ' 

It was too much ; the spirit broke — 
Maddened by anguish, goaded by despair — 
Its bonds of clay ; and soared on freedom's wings, 
Eejoicing up to freedom's glorious land, 
The land of heaven ; while at the oppressor's feet) 
Mangled and bleeding, lay a fettered corpse I 




o- 



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POEMS. 143 



PRAYER AT SEA DURING A VIOLENT STORM. 



The night was dark, the storm was loud, 

The wind went waihng by, 
And many a wild and fearful cloud 

Swept o'er the starless sky. 
Around our bark huge billows rolled, 

That tossed us to and fro ; 
And flung, with fury uncontrolled, 

Afar their foam of snow. 



And booming o'er the waters came 

The thunder's heavy roar. 
As lightning like a sheeted flame . 

Flashed the wide ocean o'er. 
Fear, like an icy torrent, swept 

O'er many a mortal form ; 
And haughty spirits bowed and wept, 

To hear that awful storm. 



O O 



o -o 

144 POEMS. 

Rocked on the bosom of the deep, 

To ocean's God we prayed, 
Who hushed a wilder sea to sleep, 

That fiercer storms had made ; 
He sent his angel down, to calm 

The tumult of our souls ; 
And bid us feel that nought could harm, 

Where God liimself controls. 



O, it was joy to feel, that He 

Watched o'er that sea of foam; 
That 'twas not there our graves should be. 

Afar from friends and home. 
Would that our hearts might ne'er forget 

The sweet assurance given, 
Till death's cold waves our lips shall wet. 

And earth is chanared for heaven ! 



O 't is a blessed thing to pray, 

'Mid pain, and fear, and strife ; 
It brings us down the brightest ray 

That gilds the gloom of life. 
No chill hath fear, no pang hath woe, 

For hearts of faith and love : 
Wlio halh no tongue for prayer below. 

Hath none for sons: above ! 



O O 



o— o 

POEMS. 145 



DEATH OF A MISSIONARY. 



Thep.e conies a cry from a foreign soil, 

On the spicy breezes sweeping, 
For death has darkened a field of toil, 

And finished another's reaping. 

Among the fijst in the faithful band, 
With her precious sheaves around her, 

And the keen-edged sickle in her hand, 
At her Master's work he found her. 

She held it firm in her ceaseless clasp, 

TiU her labors all were ended. 
Then laid it down, with a shout, to grasp 

The crown which her Lord extended. 

There conies a cry o'er the swelling wave. 

And the breath of bitter sighing ; 
For a throng are pressing around the grave, 

Where a stranger's dust is lying. 

13 

O O 



O- 



-o 



146 



They tell of the deeds the stranger wrought, 
In her heavenly love and kindness ; 

They tell of the lamp of life she brought 
To the heathen's world of bhndness. 

They tell of the glorious cross they greet, 
She reared in that land of sorrow, 

"Where the guiltiest souls find pardon sweet, 
And the saddest, comfort borrow. 

They tell of the freedom that cross reveals 
To their weary, sin-bound nation ; 

Of their idols crushed 'neath the mighty wheels 
Of the car of Christ's salvation. 

They moum, that her kindred were not nigh 
When the death-stroke came to sever ; 

That only one for the dim, dark eye 
Could weep, as it closed forever. 

For a mother's hand, that softly smooths, 
For the loved, the dying pillow — 

And a sister's voice, that sweetly soothes, 
Were far o'er the heavinq; billow. 



O- 



Well may they weep, — for it was for these, 
Who whisper in tears her story, 

She crossed the foam of the raging seas, 
A herald of life and glory. 



-O 



o o 

I 
POEMS. 147 

She came to tell to that strange, dark land, 
Of His love who hath sweetly won them ; 

To link their hearts to the Christian band, 
With the seal of the Lord upon them. 

And now the praise of her God is sung, 

And his sacred ties are cherished, 
Where the chant of the senseless idol rung. 

And the living victim perished. 

But the voice that spake shall speak no more, 

In its tone of triumph swelling ; 
For the wail, that echoes from that wild shore, 

Of the heathen's loss is telling. 

Rest, loved one, rest, for thy work is done, — 
Go, dust, to thy dreamless slumber ; 

Mount, soul, to the crown and the white robe won. 
And the bliss of the sainted number. 

And-ye, whose sorrow hath wrung your hearts 
Till your tears like rain are fallmg ; 

Know ye, when the child of the cross departs, 
It is at the Master's calling ? 

What though not back o'er the ocean tide 
She came, to her home's glad greeting ; 

Tlie doors of a brighter opened wide — 
And she waiteth tJiere the meeting ! 

O o 



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-o 



148 



CHILDHOOD'S SLEEP. 



Sleep on in innocence, fair child ! 

Its seal is on thy brow ; 
Sleep with a spirit nndefiled, 

For this thou bearest now. 

Thy busy thoughts are far away 

In some familiar scene ; 
And thou art by the brook at play, 

Or on the hiU-side green. 

The woes and cares of coming years 

WiU bring thee many a night, 
"When thou shalt wet thy couch with tears, 

And long for morning light. 



o- 



But now, ere those dark hours draw nigh, 

Enjoy thy peaceful rest ; 
No tear-drop in thy half-closed eye. 

No sigh within thy breast. 



-o 



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POEMS. 149 

O, beautiful is childhood's sleep, 

And golden dreams it brings ; 
When guardian angels vigil keep, 

And fold their shining wings. 

But far more beautiful and pure — 

In childhood's opening bloom. 
From all the woes of life secure — 

The slumber of the tomb. 

The frame that hath with anguish striven, 

That sleep forever calms. 
While the young spirit wakes in heaven — 

Wakes in the Saviour's arms. 




6 6 



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-o 



150 



POEMS 



TO THE MOON. 



Thou peerless queen of the shadowy uight, 
Ride on in tliy beautiful car of light ; 
JN'Iid the envious clouds that around thee fly, 
And transiently darken the star-ht sky. 

What various scenes hast thou witnessed here, 
Wliile gazing down from thy shining sphere. 
With a pitying eye, on the fleeting bliss 
And mocldng hopes of a world hke this ! 

Thou hast gazed on many a city's rise, 
Proud Rome, 'neath the smiles of Italian skies; 
As her sages' lore, and her warriors' skill. 
Made monarchs bow to her sovereign will. 

Now dost thou look on her walls, defiled 
With the moss of age and the ivy wild ; 
Where the fallen domes, and the halls of mirth, 
Ai'e crumbhno; back to the dust of earth! 



o- 



-o 



o — o 

POEMS. 151 

Thou art unclianged by the hand of time, 
Li every age and m every dime ; 
And canst not share in the swift decay 
Of the transient works of the sons of clay. 

Oft hast thou gazed on the battle plain, 
The mangled forms of the graveless slain. 
And many a warrior's broken lance 
Hath brightly glittered beneath thy glance. 

And far away on the mighty deep. 
When the treacherous billows seemed to sleep, 
Hast thou seen proud vessels in safety glide, 
Then, foundering, sink in the foaming tide. 

No piercing cry 'mid the whirlpool's roar, 
The chill night-breeze o'er the waters bore; 
Cold fell thy light on the parted wave. 
That rolled o'er the slumbering seaman's grave. 

Oft thou hast illumined the ancient tower. 
The grass-grown courts, and the silent bower, 
The mouldered arch where the night-bird sings. 
And spreads to the breeze her dusky wings. 

The lonely moor, and the mountain side. 
And the peaceful hamlets scattered wide, 
The dew-bright turf of the flowery vale. 
Where the fairies dance till the stars grow pale. 

O ^ O 



o o 

152 POEMS. 

And thou hast entered the darkened room 
Where beauty fades in its freshest bloom; 
And silvered awhile the pallid cheek, 
And snoAvy brow of the sufferer, meek. 

Beguiled for a moment the languid eye. 

As, veiling thy brightness, the clouds sailed by ; 

And many a spirit has passed away 

From its earthly bonds with the moonlight ray. 

Oft dost thou gaze on the church-yard drear, 
The chambers of death, so lonely, cheer ; 
Perchance thy radiance scatters the gloom, 
That darkly o'ershadows each narrow tomb. 

Ride on, ride on, in thy glittering car, 
And kindle anew each silvery star ; 
Till the Avorks of nature herself decay, 
Till the heavenly orbs shall vanish away. 

When the world we inhabit all desolate lies. 
The children of God to his presence shall rise ; 
No more shall we need thee, thou beautiful one, 
Nor thy conquering rival, the glorious sun ! 

Beams fairer than thine shall illumine the heaven. 
The beams of a morning that knows not an even ; 
And the ransom'd shall worship the mighty ' I Am,' 
Redeemed from his wrathbythe blood of the Lamb. 

6 ^ — ^b 



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POEMS. 153 



I COULD NOT DIE REMOTE PROM HOME. 



I COULD not die remote from home, 

E'en had I high renown, 
Or were I 'neath a palace dome 

Upon a bed of down. 

Were strangers' faces hovering nigh, 

That stranger tones revealed, 
'T would be a double death to die, 

A double life to yield. 

One accent of my mothefs voice, 

One glimpse of those I love. 
Would make my mourning heart rejoice, 

And cheer my flight above. 

I could not break, as thousands break, 

Life's golden bowl, alone ; 
The world and all its scenes forsake 

For realms unseen, unknown. 

6 O 



o o 

I 

1 54 POEMS. 

I could not fall, as thousands fall, 

Upon the field of death; 
Mid battle din, and trumpet call, 

Resign my trembling breath. 

I could not rest, as thousands rest, 
Whose clay the deep embalms ; 

Who yield their life on ocean's breast. 
And slumber in her arms. 

I could not die, as thousands die, 

Unknowing and unknown, 
Nor would I have my ashes lie 

Beneath some stately stone. 

The chisel might my name engrave, 

The age I, dying, bore ; 
The spot, some lofty tree might wave 

Its massive branches o'er. 

The polished slab might rear its form. 

Admiring eyes should see ; 
The tree survive the wintry storm — 

What would they be to me ? 

For, O ! affection's sacred tear. 

The loved of early days, 
Oft gently sheds, with heart sincere. 

The proudest pile outweighs ! 

b — — O 



o- 



-o 



155 



But such may ne'er for me be shed, 

Yet only these I crave, 
When numbered with the sleeping dead 

Within the gloomy grave. 

For, O ! the thought torments me yet, 

The thought I cannot bear ; 
The friends I love may soon forget 

Whose ashes slumber there I 




o- 



-o 



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156 



SUMUS ANIM^-WE ARE SPIRITS 



We are spirits ! we are spirits ! 

In this world of real things ; 
To the mortal part that holds us, 

Every day new changes brings. 
Every act the soul is proving, 

Fettered by its earthly shell ; 
Ever striving, onward moving, 

To the land where sphits dwell. 

"We are spirits ! we are spirits ! 

Yet our nature who hath told ? 
Vain for this the noblest reason, 

And the richest lore of old. 
Vain for this the bard's sweet numbers, 

Other themes his harp may sound; 
Here, alas ! its music slumbers. 

Hushed to silence most profound. 

We are spirits ! we are spirits ! 

And in rapture or in woe, 
Linked by friendship's ties together, 

On the march of life we 2:0. 



o- 



-o 



o ^ o 

POEMS. 157 

Oft aside in eiTor turning, 

Blinded, O how grossly now, 
Though the seal divine is burning 

Brightly on the human brow. 

We are spirits ! we are spirits ! 

Formed to weep, and weep in vain ; 
For the things we love that perish, 

Never to return again. 
Longing for earth's fleeting pleasures, 

Grasping flowers that fade in bloom ; 
Hoarding frail and worthless treasures, 

But to leave them at the tomb. 

We are spirits ! we are spirits ! 

Wandering at our Maker's will; 
He whose breath our breath imparted, 

Watches o'er his creatures still. 
Till this frame of dust he moulded 

Frees its tenant, heavenly born, — 
In the shroud lies hushed and folded, 

For the resurrection morn. 

We are spirits ! we are spirits ! 

Fettered, earth, awhile by thee ; 
Death alone, our Father's angel, 

Sets us from thy bondage free. 
To the land of spirits flying. 

Then our God our fate shall tell ; 
Living at his voice, or dying. 

Endless heaven is ours, or hell ! 

o y O 



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-o 



158 



A WOUNDED SPIRIT, WHO CAN BEAR? 



O 'tis a weary, weary thing 

To bear a wounded heart, 
When friendship's hand that wound hath caused, 

Its keen and cruel smart. 
And dashed to earth in one short hour 

A chahce of its bhss ; 
Nay, tell me not of other griefs, 

There is no grief like this ! 



I care not for the chilKng words, 

From stranger lips that spring, 
I care not for the shafts of scorn 

That angry spirits fling ; 
Or for the stern reproof deserved 

Upon my ear that falls ; 
But cold indifference, this, O this, 

My spirit e'er appalls. 



o- 



-O 



o o 

POEMS. 159 

For when the ■warm and gushing fount 

Of love's pure tide is stayed, 
And on affection's cherished wreaths 

A bhghting hand is laid ; 
When those we long and dearly prized 

Have pierced the bosom deep ; 
The cruel stroke who would not mourn ? 

The wound who would not weep. 



But yet the loved are precious still, 

I cannot such forget ; 
The memory sweet of other days 

Deep in my heart is set. 
For hearts were faithful, lips were true, 

In younger, other days ; 
With all the gentle confidence 

That childhood e'er displays. 



O thou who here didst often bleed 

With keenest, deepest woe, 
Why should thy followers e'er expect 

A brighter lot below ? 
Teach me to bear the cruel wounds 

By faithless friendship given ; 
For thou art true, art true indeed — 

And thine are true in heaven ! 



O ^ O 



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160 



POEMS 



STANZAS 



Wiitten on being prevented by illness from atlending upon pnblic woisbip. 



I SEE them as they move along 

Toward the house of prayer ; 
A solemn, yet a happy throng, 

And those I love are there. 
But I — why do I linger so ? 

That path I oft have trod — 
Alas ! to-day I may not go 

With them to worship God. 



I may not kneel where they shall kneel, 

Or pray Avhere they shall pray. 
And hear the voice of music steal 

My soul from earth away. 
I may not there an ofiering bring 

To thee, my God, to thee ; 
Nor bid my spirit heavenward spring 

On faith's own piuions free. 



o- 



-o 



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POEMS. 161 

There shall they break the bread divine 

Upon the hallowed board, 
There shall they pour the sacred wine 

In memory of my Lord. 
Ten thousand lips this day partake, 

And God's rich grace adore, 
But not for me the bread they break, 

Not mine the wine they pour. 



Ah, no ! these joys shall not be mine, 

My soul with rapture thrill ; 
But shall my spirit dare repine 

That 't is her Master's will ? 
For though remote from liis dear saints, 

For whom I vainly sigh. 
Beside the couch of my complaints 

The Lord himself is nigh. 



Yes ; thou art here, my life, my all ! 

Thy presence fills the place, 
And sweetly on my spirit fall 

Rich dews of heavenly grace. 
And here, O holy Lamb of Grod, 

I can remember thee ; 
And e'en in this, thy chast'ning rod, 

Thy love and mercy see. 



O O 



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-o 



162 



POEMS 



To Hiss E. A. ¥. 



"When radiant morn to life awakes, 

And leaves her shady bowers, 
And "svith her rosy finger shakes 

The dewdrops from the flowers ; 
When countless minstrels sweetly sing 

Wide o'er the earth in glee, 
And gayly plume their freedom wing — 

My heart is still with thee. 



When gently dies the weary day, 

And shines the evening star. 
As twilight flings liis mantle gray 

O'er hiU and dale afar ; 
When strife and tumult sweetly cease, 

From toil and care set free. 
My spirit hails the blest release — 

My heart is still with thee. 



o- 



-o 



o o 

POEMS. 163 

When gladness crowns my flow'ry path, 

And lights the heart I bear, 
And not a grief my spirit hath. 

Or one corroding care ; 
As deep I quaff the cup of bliss, 

The sweetest poured for me, 
Thy gentle voice, thy smile I miss — 

My heart is still with thee. 



"Wlien adverse tempests' chilling rain 

Beats harshly, coldly down, 
And cherished hopes prove false and vain, 

And changeful fortunes frown; 
Firm as a rock 'mid ocean waves. 

Thy hallowed memories be — 
Thy sympathy my spirit craves. 

My heart is still with thee. 



In joy or sorrow, bliss or woe, 

Whatever lot be mine, 
Thy image e'er shall brightly glow 

Within my spirit's shrine. 
Though distance holds me far from thee, 

Communion sweet is given, 
O, heart to heart on earth we '11 be, 

And face to face in heaven ! 



O O 



o- 



164 



-O 



POEMS 



THE YOUNG- SWISS MINSTREL. 



She came from sunny Switzerland, 

The beautiful, the wild. 
But dreary in its loveliness, 

To her, an orphan child ; 
Her home was once a joyous home, 

Where love held gentle sway. 
But death had made it desolate. 

And bore its Hfe away. 



Her father left his happy cot 

When morning tinged the skies, 
And perished in the chamois chase. 

Where many a hunter dies : 
For when the dews of evening fell 

On mount, and lake, and plain ; 
He came not laden with his spoils, 

He never came again. 



o- 



-O 



o o 

POEMS. 165 

And soon beside the cottage hearth 

The mother pined and died, 
And lonely was the Switzer's cot 

Upon the mountain side ; 
And poverty's cold, crushing hand 

Fell heavy on the child, 
On whom, e'er since her birth was hailed, 

Biit tenderest love had smiled. 



She wandered forth, her bread to win, 

Far on a foreign soil, 
"With none to cheer her mourning heart, 

Or bless her in her toil. 
She wandered forth to sing those songs 

Which oft the bosom thrill, 
And when the minstrel's voice hath ceased 

That seem to linger still. 



She sang them with a sunny smile, 

As though her heart was gay. 
When oft, to hide the falling tears, 

She turned her face away ; 
For by-gone days were then recalled, 

When, on her father's knee, 
The very same within his ear 

She poured with childish glee. 



O O 



o- 



166 



POEMS 



-o 



Ah ! little do they dream, who hear 

The wandering minstrel sing, 
And idly cavil or applaud. 

And words reproachful fling ; 
That 'neath the joyous smile and song 

Lie sorrows unrevealed ; 
And 'tis the greatest grief of all. 

To mock them, thus concealed. 



To wear the mask of gayety, 

Its absence but to hide. 
And wake sweet notes of melody, 

That in the soul have died ; 
O, this is bitterness indeed, 

And oft they feel it all 
Upon w^hose straining ear, all words 

Save words of kindness fall. 



Thus was it with the Switzer gui ; 

And many a weary day, 
Before the portals of the rich. 

She poured her artless lay ; 
The pampered menial answered her 

In tones of cruel scorn. 
And bade her from the haunts of wealth 

Forevermore begone. 



o- 



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POEMS. 167 

There came not one kind friend, to soothe 

The lonely maiden's grief, 
Not one to bring her wounded heart 

A balm of soft relief; 
One look from those who gave her bread, 

A word in love expressed, 
"Would e'er have made the gift more sweet, 

The giver doubly blest. 



For sympathy vidll brightly gild 

Life's darkest, deepest gloom, 
And bid the flowers of Hope recall 

Their long departed bloom ; 
And in the wanderer's cheerless soul 

A sweet remembrance shine, 
Which love and gratitude shall hail 

And hallow as a shrine. 



Her step grew heavier, and her cheeks 

Their fading roses lost. 
And oft her young and sunny brow 

A shadow sadly crossed ; 
And mournfully her dark blue eyes 

The pining spirit spake. 
As tremblingly she bade her harp 

Its thrilling music wake. 



O -o 



o- 



168 



POEMS 



-o 



One eve she stayed her steps awhile, 

Aiid sat her down and wept, 
The silver stars lit np the heaven. 

And earth beneath them slept ; 
She marked them not, her cheek grew pale, 

Her harp slipped from her side ; 
And there, unpitied and alone, 

The young Swiss minstrel died ! 



Then came compassion's gentle aid, 

But, ah, availing nought, 
As to the dying pilgrim's lips 

The cup too late is brought : 
As on the parched and broken flower 

Descends the tardy rain, — 
Her harp had lost its melody. 

She swept it not again I 




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POEMS. 169 



FRIENDSHIP. 



How vain are words the ties to tell, 

That heart to heart may bind ; 
The strange, mysterious, mighty spell 

Of mind on kindred mind. 
The light that comes the soul to fill 

From friendship's altar shed. 
That cheers the drooping spirit still, 

When days, ay, years have fled. 

And when fate's stern and high decree 

Hath borne the loved afar, 
It flashes o'er life's stormy sea 

A bright, unfailing star. 
TiU joined again are hearts and hands 

In bonds of earthly love. 
Or in the purer, holier bands 

That bind the blest above. 

And O, when death's cold hand hath torn 

A wreath of friendship here, 
And on the chaplet they who mourn 

Bestow the bitter tear, 
How sweetly Faith triumphant, cries, 

Exulting o'er the sod : 
' Friendship is endless in the skies, 

With loved ones gone to God ! ' 

o ^ 6 



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170 POEMS. 



MY BROTHER ON THE SEA. 



The storm is raging loud to-night, 

And darker grows the sky ; 
And hke a giant, in his might, 

The strong wind rushes by. 
My heart is with the good, the brave, 

Who ride the billows free, 
With one whose home is ocean's wave. 

My brother on the sea I 

Would I could bid the tempest cease 

That hath the sky defiled, 
And soothe to gentleness and peace 

The bitter winds and wild ; 
How can I bear their wrath to mark, 

That death to him may be, 
A wanderer in a fragile bark, 

My brother on the sea I 

We were a happy household band. 

In childhood's sunny hours ; 
Our pathway, Hope's own rosy hand 

Strewed with her fairest flowers. 

o 6 



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POEMS. 171 

But now a change hath o'er ns passed, 

The grave hides two from me ; 
And far away his lot is cast, 

My brother on the sea ! 

My fancy oft recalls those days 

That vanished long ago, 
And memory's light, that round them plays, 

Retains its vivid glow. 
How sweet the times that were — but now 

How sadly changed they be ; 
Jin my loneliness — and thou, 

My brother, on the sea ! 

O, is it strange that I should weep 

To hear the tempest rise ; 
To know that o'er an angry deep 

His rayless pathway lies ? 
O God ! my eyes with tears are dim, 

To thee, I come, to thee ; 
Hear thou my earnest prayer for him, 

My brother on the sea I 

Through every danger safely guide, — 

Thy watch-care round him thrown. 
Grant tHat his bark unscathed may ride 

High o'er where wrecks are strown; 
But oh, if there his own must lie. 

If there his grave must be. 
Grant I may meet above the sky. 

My brother on the sea ! 

O O 



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172 POEMS. 



FIRST APFECTION. 



I hnow he loves me, for I read 

The story in his eye, 
And hear it from those hps of his 

When none but he is nigh : 
And I have loved him in return, 

And back to him have given 
My first and dearest love, save that 

Which God must claim, and heaven. 
All ! who could help but loving Jiim, 

He is so good and kind, 
And has so much of nobleness 

And purity of mind ; 
O, I can place my confidence, 

With faith no doubt can dim, 
And centre hope and happiuees, 

My earthly all, in him. 
But 't is around him most of all 

That my affection twines, 
Because in all his deeds and words 

The Saviour's spirit shines ; 

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POEMS. 173 

"What though unbidden to my eye, 

The tears will sometimes start, 
To think that from my childhood's home, 

Ere long, I must depart ? 
It may be wrong that but for this 

My cheek is sometimes wet. 
It may be wrong, but mine is not 

A heart that can forget, 
Or leave without a sigh, the things 

It prized in by-gone hours. 
And fling the joys of other days 

Aside, like faded flowers ; 
Ah, no I but I have won for these 

His deathless love and true, 
"Who will forgive my parting tears. 

Forgive my weakness too. 
And I, for his sweet sake, will leave 

All that I prized before. 
Nor cast one longing look behind 

On scenes my own no more. 
'Tis not they are less dear to me, 

For now they seem to fill 
A larger portion of my heart. 

But he is dearer still. 
His home must be the home for me, 

And paths untried, untrod; 
His people shall ray people be, 

His God shall be my God. 

15* 

6 — o 



o — o 

! -,-1 

I 1/-4: POEMS. 

Life is not all a summer day, 

For Avintry tempests blow, 
And strong winds of adversity 

Sweep harshly to and fro : 
But not for sunny days alone 

Will I become Ins bride, 
'Tis for those dark and stormy ones 

That yet may dawn beside ; 
'Tis for those days when cares shall fling 

Their shadows on his brow, 
As well as when the moments wdng 

A joyous flight as now. 
And oh ! when cares abroad, a weight 

Upon his soul shall fall, 
God grant that in his happy home 

He may forget them all : 
That when the threshold of that home 

His weary foot hath crossed. 
In my caress and ^velcoming 

The memory may be lost, 
Of all that had the power to make 

His gentle spirit sad ; 
And it will be my happiness 

To strive to make him glad. 
I know mine is an erring heart, 

But oh, my aim shall be 
To make it worthy of the love 

He richly showei^s on me. 

6 6 



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POEMS. 175 

I know that he will bear with me, 

My faults will gently chide, 
And pardon all the waywardness 

And foUy of his bride ; 
But 't is not in my own weak strength 

I pledge myself to him, 
To be his own in faithfulness 

Till death my eye shall dim ; 
O, no ! I dare not think of this ; 

I go in strength Divine, 
To tread the world's rough paths with him, 

To link his lot with mine. 
And 'mid whate'er of good or ill 

Shall be to us assigned, 
To him shall cling my spirit still, 

The same sweet ties shall bind. 
Death cannot part us : are we not 

United, through the Son, 
By the same rich immortal hopes 

In our Redeemer, one ? 
And seek we not the same bright heaven ? 

O, till we enter there, 
Life's joys and sorrows here below 

Together we will bear. 



O O 



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176 POEMS. 



MARRIAGE HYMN. 



Now the solemn words are spoken, 

Now the marriage vow is said ; 
And the tie, till death unbroken, 

Binds the kindred spirits wed : 
Sacred season. 

O'er it, Hope, thy radiance shed. 

Thon, who standest at the altar, 
Claiming there thy chosen bride, 

In thy duty never falter. 

O'er life's stormy sea to gxiide : 

Be thou faithful. 
Let whate'er of change betide. 

Fondly guard the priceless treasure, 
"Woman's love, "which thou hast won ; 

So thy cup of bliss shall measure 
Ever full, and over run : 

Till a purer 
Angels fill, when hfe is done. 

6 O 



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POEMS. 177 

Thou, from cliildhood's home departing, 

And the loved of many years ; 
O'er this hour's bright sunshine darting, 

Cometh grief with falling tears : 
Doubly precious, 

Every face and scene appears. 

Oh ! when far from these connections, 
From this dear, this hallowed spot, 

In thy spirit's warm affections, 
Cherished one, forget us not : 

Thou shalt never. 
By us changeless, be forgot. 

Go, we would not here detain thee. 
Tempt thee in our midst to stay ; 

By our words we will not pain thee, 
Duty calls thee hence, away : 

Go — "we give thee 
All the tribute love can pay. 

Fare ye well ! may God's rich blessing 

On ye both rest sweetly now ; 
'Neath his smiles all bliss possessing, 

Earth on mortals can endow : 
Till ye enter 

"Worlds where binds no marriage vow. 



o o 



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178 POEMS. 



PRAYER rOR THE ABSENT. 



Bless thou the absent, O my God! remember 
Those whom I fondly cherish far away; 

Some in the season of hfe's drear December, 
Some in summer, and its soft spring day. 

Kindly regard them, O thou Holy One, 

For the dear sake of thine Anointed Son. 

Bless thou the absent, when the light of morning 
Flashes in splendor over land and sea, 

When, from the gorgeous clouds the east adorning. 
Breaks forth the golden sun sublimely free. 

Scatter rich blessings on their devious way, 

And guide their footsteps thro' the coming day. 

Bless thou the absent when the eve returning. 
Summons the weary to a welcome rest ; 

When night's first silver star is sweetly burning, 
Gem-like and pure on heaven's cerulean breast. 

Send them soft slumbers, soothing pain and care, 

And let thine angels fold their pinions there. 

O O 



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POEMS. 179 

Bless thou the absent in the hour of trial, 
Help them to battle in thy holy might ; 

Give back the tempter strong words of denial, 
And victors stand upon the field of fight. 

Cleanse them from every earthly stain and dross ; 

Teach them to seek the crown beneath the cross. 

Bless thou the absent in the hour of sorrow, 
When the wide world seems lonely, dark, and 
drear ; 
E-ich consolation may they ever borrow 

From thine own Word, to tlrine own children 
dear. 
There may each promise sweet, a healing balm. 
The deep, keen anguish of the spirit calm. 

Bless thou the absent ! guide and guard them ever 
Thro' life, in death, and to that world on high ; 

Where care, and grief, and trial enter never. 
Where death itself in endless life shall die; 

And the long-parted meet around thy throne, 

Unknown to tears, to farewell words unknown. 



O O 



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180 POEMS. 



THE DEAD. 



The dead ! the dead ! I love them still, 

Though years have hurried by, 
Since bending o'er the dying covich 

I caught the parting sigh ; 
Since I bedewed the mournful pall 

With fond affection's tear, 
And sorrowed o'er the sleeping form 

Upon the sable bier. 

They come to me when darkness steals 

Along the weary land. 
Upon the pinions of the night, 

A dim, yet beauteous band ; 
They flit before me one by one. 

The tenants of the tomb, 
And wearing all the robes of death, 

But bearing not its gloom. 

In midnight's solemn hour, I see 

Their shadows on the wall ; . 
And softly on the moonlit floor 

I hear their footsteps fall, — 

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POEMS. 181 

The rustling of their silver wings 

Above my weary head ; 
And O, 't is sweet to sleep beneath 

The watch-care of the dead! 

I hear them speak, in gentle tones, 

Of peace, and joy, and bliss ; 
The language of celestial worlds, 

O, how unlike to this ! 
For mingled with the friendships there. 

No sordid self is known, 
And on affection's sunny track 

No shade is ever thrown. 

I love the places that they loved. 

The hillside and the grove ; 
Where, in the quiet summer eve. 

We once were wont to rove. 
Who knows but what they haunt them yet, 

And make them dear to me ? 
Chide not the fancy, hush it not. 

Though strange and wild it be. 

There is a charm about the dead ; 

It binds me to the tomb. 
And to their memories w^ho sleep 

Long years in dust and gloom. 
I love the living, and I love 

When youth and bloom have fled ; 
And 't is affection deep and strong 

I cherish for the dead ! 

o '^ — — 6 



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182 POEMS. 



STANZAS, 
Written on board the Steamer Britannia, June 12, 18 



Roll on ! roll on, ye giant waves, 

In grandeur fierce and wild, — 
Old ocean, though he madly raves, 

Must own me as his child. 
Roll on across our liquid path, 

With hoarse and sullen roar, 
And all your gathered wealth of wrath 

In whitened vengeance pour. 

I am as fearless as the bird 

Who makes the wave her home, 
And weaves her nest, with song unheard, 

Amid the breaker's foam ; 
"Who boldly dips her snowy wing 

Li surge as purely white, 
Then soars aloft in airy ring 

"With scream of wild delight. 

Away ! and round yon distant rock 

In stormy fury rave. 

Ye may the timid landsman shock, 

But not the sailor brave. 
I 

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POEMS. 183 

Our bold and gallant bark disdains 

The might of raging tides, 
Swift o'er old Neptune's vast domains 

A queen, ' Britannia' rides. 

She scatters from her whirling wheels 

The foara that marks her pace — • 
As hurls the war-horse from his heels 

The dust of battle chase. 
Her canvass to the breeze she flings, 

As to the strong free air 
The eagle gives his noble wings 

And leaves his mountain lair. 

God shield the bark from every ill, 

And bless her faithful crew, 
Her officers of worth and skill, 

Her Hewitt, brave and true ; 
And bless the veteran known to fame, 

Whom once the waters bore 
To battle for his country's claim — 

The valiant ' Commodore ! ' 

God bless the men and mighty lands 

The ocean rolls between, — 
The President, who our's commands, 

And England's royal Queen I 
May virtue each with glory crown, 

May dark oppression cease, 
And cry of battle never drown 

The silver song of peace. 

O 



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184 POEMS. 



¥E'YE CONQUERED AMERICA! 



The follo'wing lines were suggested on hearing an account of a party of 
foreigners, ^vho recently adopted, on a public occasion, the above 
sentence as iheir motto. 

America conquered! the land of the brave, 
Where the star-spangled banners of hberty wave ! 
And the dust of the valiant lies low in the sod, 
"With the altar above him, he raised to his God ! 

America conquered ! and conquered by whom ? 
What steel-armored legion hath spoken her doom ? 
Hath England sent over her armies of pride. 
And her sword in the blood of young liberty dyed ? 

Have the hearts of our sons from their bravery 

turned, 
To wear the vile fetters their ancestors spurned ? 
Doth the star-spangled banner lie rent on the 

shield. 
And the eagle of freedom drop slain on the field? 

O o 



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POEMS. 185 

Not these, O not these are the conquests — the 

plain 
Bears not on its bosom one crimsoning stain ; 
Yet strife there hath been, and the challenging 

word, 
And great men have fallen, — but not by the 

sword, 

Lo ! far o'er America's beautiful soil. 

Is scattered the legion who gather the spoil ; 

The scorned and degraded of Europe's high 

powers, 
Their land have deserted to desecrate ours ! 

They come o'er the foam of the wild sweep- 
ing sea 
To darken the land, the bright land of the free ; 
And with soul-galling shackles of bigotry, bind 
The noble, the godlike, the glorious mind ! 

O sons of America ! list to the cry, 
The loud, fearful warning that rings to the sky ; 
Will ye bend to the yokes of a bondage so vile ? 
Shall idols your altars most sacred defile ? 

Shall foul, blackened falsehood unanswered be 

borne. 
And Americans branded with insult and scorn ? 



O . o 



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-o 



186 



POEMS 



Truth ! where is thy shame ! and Rehgion, thy 

power ! 
And Freedom, thy bravery fled in tliis hour ? 

Arouse ye ! arouse ye, O men of the North ! 
Let the South send her champions fearlessly forth. 
And the East and the "West, let them gird on the 

sword, 
And away to the strife in the might of the Lord. 

Strike ! strike for the country, the freedom ye 

crave. 
Religion, and home, and the Puritan's grave ; 
O fight as they fought, on the land and the sea, 
And die as they died, but in leaving it Free I 




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POEMS. 187 



ULI, GUI CARMINA APPLICENT. 



A SON of Esculapius comes, 

I hear his chariot wheels ; 
The very sound my soul benumbs, 

A shiver o'er me steals. 

Ye muses, aid me if you can, 

Ye sundry settled bills, 
In self-defence to sing the man 

Of gallipots and pills ! 

Ye classic bards of olden days, 

My vacant soul inspire ; 
Ye smiling ghosts of comic lays. 

Awake my sleeping lyi-e. 

Desert your graves in winding-sheets. 

Diseases, fierce and grim ; 
Ye aches and pains your dark retreats 

Forsake, and smg of him. 

O O 



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188 POEMS. 

Ye memories of departed pills, 

Of bitter powders too, 
Support my shrinking soul, that fills 

With horror at the view. 

Ye spirits all of tuneful rhyme, 

Where'er ye chance to be, 
Come, mount Parnassus' heights sublime. 

And sweep the lyre for me. 

Come, sing the Homosopathic knight ; 

Describe him, as he comes 
To kindly give the aching wight 

A dose of sugar-plums ! 

Who banishes disease and woe, 
And contradicts the song, 
* Man wants but little here below. 
Nor wants that Httle long.' 

Come, sing capacious pockets crammed 

With roots the fields supply, 
That in the sounding mortar jammed. 

Diseases stern defy. 

The names that on his vials wrote, 

Li goodly rows appear, 
That choke the rude, contracted throat. 

And stun the vulgar ear. 

6 o 



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P O EMS. 189 

But most of all, his awful eyes 

That pierce my very soul ; 
That scan my feelings as they rise, 

And penetrate the whole. 

For eyes and ' specs ' together, strike 

The very seat of life ; 
And scare my timid spirit, like 

A keen-edged carving-knife ! 

But, lo ! his steed is at the gate, 

And he is at the door ; 
Be steady now, my whirling pate, 

Ye shaking nerves, give o'er. 

He doffs the frightful rubber coat, 

That darkly shrouds his form, 
And fastened tight beneath his throat. 

Defies and scares the storm. 

He leaves his cap and gloves below, 

Aiise, my longest hairs ! 
For now, with solemn step and slow, 

I hear him on the stairs. 

Two ponderous volumes in his hands, 

This second Galen brings, 
And by the couch of sickness stands, 

A man of mighty things. 

C 6 



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190 POEMS. 

Aiid now he reads those mystic books, 

Enlighteners of disease, 
And grasps his patient's wrist, and looks 

Profound as Socrates. 

Prescribes a dose, then hfts his eyes 

And fastens them on me ; 
My blood runs cold, my spirit dies, 

So terrible is he ! 

Ye pitying muses, one and all. 

That e'er on mortals smiled, 
O teach me how to break the thrall. 

The spell of . 

And if the task of serving you 

Apollo e'er assigns, 
It shall be hers, life's journey through, 

Who perpetrates these lines. 




O O 



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POEMS . 191 



SONNET-TEE WIND. 



I LOVE the music of the rushing wind, 

Harp of a thousand strings ; whose wild, free 
song, 
Wlien ocean's waves and chffs the notes prolong, 

Hath power in breathless awe my soul to bind. 
Nor is the gentler breeze to me less sweet, 

That wafts the fragrance of the blooming flower. 
And waves the green boughs in the cool retreat 

Of vine -"wreathed arbor, or of wildwood bower. 
To me the loud blast and the whispering breeze 

Alike are dear, for now a mood for this 
My spirit hath, and now alone can please, 

Soft stealing o'er my cheek, the zephyr's kiss ; 
This stirs the life-stream through my breast that 
flows. 

That calms the strife and lulls to sweet repose. 



O O 



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192 POEMS. 



MELROSE ABBEY. 



Not by the moonlight wan and pale 
I saw thee, Melrose, fair ; 

Night flung not down her ebon veil 
In folds of darkness there : 

The ruddy light of morning bold 

Streamed o'er the ruin gray and old, 

With moss that had for ages lain 

Upon thy lofty brow — 
The theme of many a stirring strain, 

How beautiful wert thou ! 
Amid the gloom of stern decay, 
Too glorious to pass away. 

There was the stillness of the grave 
Within thy roofless walls, 

Where brightly on the grassy pave 
The golden sunlight falls ; 

And many a Gothic window throws 

The shadow of its sculptured rose.* 



* The stone-^work of the windows is so carved that it presents tlie 
appearance of a rose, where each separate piece is joined. 

o 6 




1 (■'/.MJ'' 




e laiddy ligkt of moTrung" bold 
leataed- o'Bi' dxo ruin gra^y aiid old 



o- 



POEMS. 193 

O, gorgeously the ivy weaves, 

The broken arch to hide, 
A robe of dark and shining leaves, 

With fitful scarlet dyed : 
The light breeze waves it to and fro, 
With rustling murmur, soft and low. 

Not now the monk in sable stole. 
Glides through the cloister dim, 

They come not now at vesper toll, 
With prayer and holy hymn : 

The chapel of the cross is bare. 

And hoots the lonely owlet there. 

The monarch, with his courtier train, 
The knight with flashing spear, 

And mitred abbots ne'er again, 
As once shall gather here 

To tell their beads, with holy sign. 

Before St. David's ruined shrine. 

But thou hast garnered up their dust, 

O Melrose, sad and fair ; 
And sacred relics are thy trust, 

And royal, slumber there. 
And reverently above thy dead 
The passing stranger's feet shall tread. 



O O 



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194 POEMS. 



LINES WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM. 



Lady ! fair lady ! these lines shall tell, 
Though I knew thee not, that I wished thee well, 
As a friendship garland I sought to weave. 
With a trembling hand on thy shrine to leave, 
Hoping it might in thy bosom wake 
One kindly thought for the giver's sake. 

There's a brilliant bow in the Christian's sky. 
And its hues are all of the world on high ; 
It brightens adversity's clouds of gloom. 
And spans the arch of the rayless tomb — 
Hope's glorious token of love divine, 
Lady I fair lady ! this bow be thine. 

There 's a star that shines on the pilgrim's way. 

Lighting him on with a fadeless ray, 

As he treads the plain or the mountain side, 

Or stems the billows of life's wild tide, 

His glittering guide to the Saviour's shrine. 

Lady ! fair lady ! tliis star be thine. 

o ^ 6 



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POEMS. 195 

There 's an arm that strengthens the fainting soul, 
That strives for freedom from sin's control ; 
It holds it up from the depths of woe, 
When the waves of sorrow its path o'erflow; 
A helper in trouble — it hath been mine — 
Lady ! fair lady ! this arm be thine. 

There 's a home where the weary sweetly rest, 
With a tearless eye and a peaceful breast ; 
They go not forth from the fireside there, 
Who come not back in its bliss to share : 
Death never withers the wreaths they twine, 
Lady ! fair lady ! this home be thine. 




O o 



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196 POEMS. 



DAVID'S LAMENTATION FOR SAUL AND JONATHAN. 



Low lieth the beauty 

Of Israel now, 
Darkness hath shrouded 

Her warrior's brow. 
There 's a stain on her banner, 

A thorn in her crown, 
A blight and a shade 

On her peerless renown : 
A wail hath arisen from mountain and plain, 
The mighty have fallen, the valiant are slain ! 

Hang on the dark willows 

The timbrel and lute, 
Let the voice of rejoicing 

In sorrow be mute ; 
Let the land by the sound 

Of our mourning be shaken, 
A dirge for the dead 

Through the wide realm awaken : 
Send forth on the breezes a requiem strain, 
The mighty have fallen, the valiant are slain ! 

O O 



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POEMS. 197 

The swifter than eagles 

The slowest pass by, 

The stronger than lions 

All helplessly lie. 
Woe, woe to the slayer. 
Accursed be the hand 
That snatched for its victims 
The pride of our land : 
A strength and a glory she ne'er shall regain — 
The mighty have fallen, the vaUant are slain ! 

Their sword from its scabbard 

E'er fearlessly flew, 
Their bow the swift arrow 

Unerringly threw ; 
But their weapons unfailing 
Are flung, as though vile, 
On the broken, crushed arms 
Of the massacred pile ; 
And their plume-crested helmets the red dust 

shall stain, — 
The mighty have fallen, the valiant are slain ! 

Like the cedars of Lebanon 

Hewn in their pride. 
By the blow of the spoiler 

Our noblest have died ; 



O O 



o ^ o 

198 POEMS. 

For a psean of triumph 

There comes but a wail, 
And the flushed, cheek with soitow 
Turns fearfully pale ; 
A host hath departed, a host in the twain, — 
The mighty have fallen, the valiant are slain ! 

Weep, daughters of Judah ! 

Unceasingly weep, 
As the strings of your timbrels 

Ye mournfully sweep ; 
Hide gladness in anguish 

Veil beauty in tears, 
The bright hopes have perished 

Ye garnered for years ;• 
For a warrior's greeting ye tarry in vain, 
The mighty have fallen, the valiant are slain ! 

Wreathe, wreathe with the cypress 

Your dwellings of woe, 
No more in the goblet 

The red wine shall glow. 
The step of the dancer 

Hath passed from the hall. 
Where the feet of the mourner 
Loud echoing fall ; 
They have gone from the banquet who come 

not again. 
The mighty have fallen, the valiant are slain ! 

6 O 



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POEMS. 199 



THE PAINTER AND THE BEAD. 



Done ! I have ceased to trace 

The still, cold features of the sleeping dead ; 
O ! I have gazed upon that soulless face, 

Till my heart quivered in its mortal dread. 

The gathering shades of night 

Filled the wide room around me, and thy pall, 
Unconscious slumberer, in the dim lamp's light, 

Seemed all to fix my burning gaze on, all ! 

Long lay the canvass stretched 

Before me, as I now beside thee stand ; 

And ere one lineament of thine ■was sketched. 
Dropped the mute pencil from my trembling 
hand. 

How could I paint thee ! I, 

Thy bosom friend for many, many years ; 
So changed before me did I see thee lie, 

Fitful and dim between my struggling tears. 

O o 



o^ 



-o 



200 



I gazed ; there came an hour 

Of deep, hushed thought ; the tide of moments 
past 
Rolled back upon me with o'erwhelming power, 

And by-gone memories crowded thick and fast. 

I saw thee in the morn 

Of this brief Ufe, when beauteous flowers are 
strown 
Along youth's radiant path, that bear no thorn 
To wound the hand that clasps them as 
its own. 

I heard the silver brook 

Go murmuring by within the forest glade ; 
The gentle breeze, the lofty boughs that shook, 

TiU glancing sunbeams on the waters played. 

I heard thy laugh ring out 

Like joyous waterfall among the rocks, 
That gave thee back thine own heart-stirring 
shouts, 

And tone of glee as only echo mocks. 

Thou didst appear, bright one. 

In all the radiance of thy spring-time bloom ; 
Alas ! for ere went down thy summer sun. 

Death claimed that beauty to adorn the tomb. 



o- 



O 



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POEMS. 201 

That vision fled, there came 

Another, and I saw upon thy brow 
A bright wreath wave, and at the feet of fame, 

With beating heart, the pride of manhood 
bow. 

Health flushed thy cheek, the wing 

Of time came not to brush away the glow, 

And dim thy full eye, whence was wont to 
spring 
The flash of rapture or the tear of woe. 

No spoiler's hand was there 

To bind thy strong limbs in his icy chains, 
Leave his dark signet on thy forehead fair, 

And chill the warm, fresh life-blood in thy 
veins. 

My spirit, over wrought, 

Lost in the deep depths of its musings, deemed 
That back to life thy marble frame was brought, 

And of thy death my brain had only dreamed. 

I called thy name aloud, 

Through death's still chamber rang my voice ; 
the dead 
Returned no answer from the silent shroud, 

And my tongue palsied at the words it said. 

O o 



O o 

202 POEMS. 

I clasped thy hand ; the touch 

So strange, so cold, thrilled through me, and 
it fell 
Back on thy breast ; the shock was all too much, 

It burst the chain of memory's mighty spell. 

Then from the past I woke, 

Truth flashed upon me ; and the bier, the shroud, 
The present's stern reality loud spoke, 

And o'er thy form my anguished spirit bowed. 

A moment, and I manned 

My "soul for its sad task, and strove to trace 
Anew, but still with slow and quivering hand, 

The changed, changed features of thy 
cherished face. 

'Tis o'er; ray work is done; 

I cannot linger, I must haste away ; 
Bearing faint semblance, oh ! thou glorious one ! 

To what thou wert when life inspired thy clay. 

The gloomy pall I spread 

Upon thee, and in silence gathered up 
Its folds about thee; — take thy rest, O dead! 

I go to drink affliction's bitter cup. 



O O 



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POEMS. 203 



I AM PASSIN& BY WHERI THE WILD FLOWERS BLOOM. 



I AM passing by wliere the wild flowers bloom, 
And the tall grass waves o'er ^father's tomb ; 
Where the willow bends, o'er the dead beneath, 
Her mournful branch like a broken wreath ; 
And warbling birds, with a sadder note. 
On pinions light through the still air float. 

I am passing by where lais ashes rest, 
Who cradled me once on his gentle breast ; 
As the joyous mirth of his prattling child 
The weary hour of its care beguiled ; 
And he echoed back, on the breezes free. 
The ringing laugh of his infant's glee. 

O O 



o o 

204 POEMS. 

I am passing by, but he heeds it not : 

say, is the child that he loved forgot ? 
Doth he care not now for his cherished one, 
Who Imgers nigh, as the setting sun 
In the crimson west is burning low. 
Wrapping liis grave in a golden glow ? 

1 am passing by, but he cannot hear. 
For the seal of the spoiler shuts his ear ; 
The eye that shone with affection's light. 
Is dunmed in the mists of the grave's dark night, 
And the hand I clasped, as it sought my own, 
Is white and cold as the marble stone. 



I am passing by, and my trembling feet 
Would linger long by the lone retreat. 
Fain would they turn to the sacred spot 
Where a father sleeps, but I bid them not ; 
They may not yet, for I could not bear, 
To-night, the pangs of a meeting there. 

I am passing by, but I cannot bring 

A tribute sweet on his grave to fling, 

Or the summer flowers in a garland weave, 

An offering frail on the turf to leave ; 

The glittering hues of the blossoms fair 

Would only fade as he fadeth there. 

O O 



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POEMS. 205 

I am passing by ; but O, never more 

Can I tread this path as I have before ; 

For the shades of sorrow darken, now, 

My careless heart and my joyous brow ; 

A father sleeps in this hallowed spot, 

And the voice of his loved one wakes him not ! 



I am passing by, but it soon may be 
That I shall tarry as tarrieth he ; 
And O, when I share in his narrow grave, 
This boon from the living I fondly crave ; 
May ye deem the spot for iny sake as dear 
As I hold it now for my father's, here ! 




O O 



o o 

206 ro E M s . 



THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER. 



The summer days! the summer days! 

Oh ! they have hurried by, 
And faded like the gorgeous clouds 

That wreathe the sunset sky : 
And the sweet birds have gone with them, 

To milder climes away ; 
The swallow, and the golden thrush, 

That twittered on the spray. 

A cold breeze sweeps adown the hill, 

And through the vale below, 
"Where tall reeds rustle mournfully, 

And chilly waters flow : 
And there is sadness in their tone. 

As tardily they pass, 
When every night the hoar-frost leaves 

His white wreaths on the grass. 

The shadows lengthen of the trees. 

That wave so free and high, 
And lighter is the azure tinge, 

Of pale September's sky; 

O- o 



o— — ■ o 

POEMS. 207 

There gather dark and frowning clouds, 

Out pouring gloomy rain — 
O, how unlike the summer showers, 

That brightened hill and plain. 

Across the sunbeam's colder track, 

With drooping wings and slow, 
The golden-pinioned butterflies, 

The summer's children, go ; 
They pine for her as pines a bird. 

For its own native bowers, 
For there is gloom around their haunts, 

And death among their flowers. 

The tiny crickets chirp a dirge 

Beneath the faded sod, 
Where late the child with gleaming eye. 

And bounding footsteps trod. 
No radiant gifts that once he sought 

Now lure the wanderer there. 
Nor genial suns the old man draw 

Forth from his fire-side chair. 

The summer flowers ! the summer flowers ! 

How have they drooped and died, 
The last is scarcely lingering yet. 

The scarlet meadow pride. 
The wild rose and the buttercup, 

The clover's honeyed blow. 
The lily and the columbine 

Have vanished long ago. 

o 6 



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208 POEMS. 

No more the stanvort in the wood 

Peers with its yellow eye, 
Up thro' the dense and gnarled oak boughs 

To greet the summer sky ; 
Around the black and rugged rocks 

The slender vines still run, 
True, true till death, for Iheir green leaves 

Have fallen one by one. 

And where the dry and scanty turf 

A tender race entombs, 
Crowned with its fragile, dovpny tuft, 

The thistle wildly blooms — 
The hardy thistle, and it tiings ♦ 

Its small seed far and wide 
Upon the autumn wind, then dies, 

As all the rest have died. 

The dahlia and the marigold — 

We yet are calling ours. 
Bat these the summer have outlived, 

And cannot be her flowers ; 
Else, like her own true children, they 

Had perished at her loss ; 
But they fling their broad leaves haughtily 

Their kindred's graves across. 

O, summer I thou hast borne away 

The loveliness of earth. 
And in the wood and on the hill 

Stilled nature's voice of mirth; 

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POEMS. 209 

But tilings more precious than thy flowers 

Have followed in thy train, 
And voices sweeter than thy birds 

I may not hear again. 

It was with bitter sigh and tear 

I saw thee hence depart, 
For O, I kneio with thee had gone 

One from our home and heart; 
And when thou should' st come back to clothe 

"With bloom the barren limb, 
And deck the earth with birds and flowers, 

Thou would'st not bring us Mm. 

Farewell to thee, sweet summer ! till 

Thou shalt return again 
With living gifts and beautiful 

To gladden in thy train ; 
But O, thou loved and lost one, whom 

Death's waters from us sever, 
To thy ' farewell ' on earth is linked 

The cold, dark word ' forever ! ' 




o- 



O Q 

210 POEMS. 



REMEMBER NOW THY CREATOR. 



While to youth, and health, and gladness 

Beats the hfe-pulse strong and high, 
While no bitter tears of sadness 

Come, to dim the beaming eye ; — 
Ere corroding cares, intrusive, 

Vex the soul and shade the brow, 
Life's enchantments prove delusive, 

Turn to thy Creator now. 



Linger not till life is wasted. 

And youth's warm affection's chilled. 
Ere thy lips the cup have tasted. 

Which the grace of God hath filled; 
When the grave no more at distance 

Flings its shadows damp and dim, 
A frail remnant of existence 

Is no offering worthy Him. 



o o 



O — o 

POEMS. 211 

Come, ere faithless words are spoken, 

Friends like summer birds depart, 
Ere the links of love are broken 

Earth entwines around the heart ; 
Turn, O turn, where wreathed with glory 

Thy Redeemer's cross appears ; 
O'er his SAveet, yet mournful story. 

Shed thy earliest, softest tears. 



Come, with contrite hearts and lowly, 

Come, like the returning dove. 
Guided by the Spirit, holy, 

To the ark of Jesus' love. 
With the dew of life's glad morning 

Fresh upon thy radiant brow, 
With its rose thy cheek adorning. 

Turn to thy Creator now. 




o o 



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212 POEMS. 



CHRISTIAN HOPE. 



O blissful hope ! O, hope divine, 

Of resurrection from the tomb, 
That God will ope these eyes of mine, 

Tho' death may seal them now in gloom. 

What though this mortal part decay 
Within the mouldering arms of earth ; 

Unscathed the soul shall wing its way 
Up to the land that gave it birth. 

The sod that o'er me lies must break; 

The grave must wide her portals fling: 
This dust inanimate awake, 

And rise to meet its Judge and King. 

Thanks be to God, though sin and strife 
Oppress us till our latest breath ; 

Life is not here our only life, 
And death is not forever death. 

O 6 



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POEMS. 213 

Pass on, pass on, thou angel, time, 
And bear my destined years away; 

My spirit longs for life sublime. 

Released from sin, and earth, and clay. 

I care not. Time, how swift thy flight, 
Approved be all thy fleeting hours ; 

If in their moments, brief, aright 

Be trained my soul's immortal powers. 

For every rose I cherish here 

Thou crushest 'neath thy ruthless feet, 

Faith sees a flower, above, appear 
In bloom more beautiful, more sweet ! 

For every broken earthly tie, 

And wreck of friendship's altar riven, 

There is a union formed on high, 
A more enduring shrine in heaven. 

Though often here my aching head 

On thorny pillow finds repose, 
There shall a bhssful couch be spread, 

All undisturbed by mortal woes. 

Immortal life, immortal bliss, 

Awaits me in celestial realms ; 
Whose prospect, in a world like this. 

My longing soul with joy o'erwhelms. 

O o 



o- 



-o 



214 



POEMS 



My bark halh. all her canvass furled, 
Though stormy billows wildly roll ; 

The day-star of that glorious world 
Cheers sweetly on my steadfast soul, 

O, joyful season ! welcome day, 

That sees my earthly fetters riven ; 

Speed tardy hours your dull delay. 
Your faster flight, my sooner heaven. 




C- 



-o 



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POEMS. 215 



CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 



I DREAD thee not, O gloomy grave ! 

That soon may ope for me, 
I dread thee not ; I would not save 

My weary frame from thee. 

I would not bind the wings of Time, 

The hour's swift coming stay; 
"When angels to the realms sublime 

Shall bear my soul away. 

The world, with all she can endow 

A mortal, might be given, 
But O, it could not charm me now, 

For I have tasted heaven ! 

Earth's sons may bear her base control, 

Yet deem themselves as free ; 
She cannot fetter thee, my soul. 

She cannot fetter thee ! 

6 6 



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216 POEMS. 

She spreads the fleeting charms in vain 

That she has spread before, 
To woo the love's return again, 

That shall be hers no more. 

There is no real bliss below. 

The heaven-born mind to fill ; 
She finds it all but empty show, 

And thirsts and hungers still. 

There is a shadow of the tomb 

Where earthly light hath shone, 
A tinge of Eden's blighted bloom 

O'er earthly beauty thrown. 

But be it so : be earth a scene 

Of varied trial given ; 
Upon the arm of Faith I lean. 

Who points me oft to heaven. 

Though other tones my ear may greet, 

No. bliss to me they bear ; 
No melody like those, so sweet, 

That tell of waking there. 

Press on, my soul, with steadfast aim, 

Soon all life's journey trod; 
While dust its kindred dust shall claim, 

Thou shalt ascend to God ! 

o 6 



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POEMS. 217 



To 



'T WAS ever so ! 'twas ever so ! 

How many I recall 
Of friends who were the first to go, 

Whom best I loved of all ; 
The hand of fate would mar the scene, 

The wreath that friendship gave. 
Or distance darkly roll between, 

Or yet the darker grave. 



The chosen and the cherished few, 

Who should the most remain ; 
The kind, the generous, and the true 

I never could retain. 
They pass, with all those golden hours 

The links of friendship bind, 
And leave but memory's fading flowers 

To gather up beliind. 

* 

19 

6 6 



o- 



-o 



218 



For by-gone moments, all too brief, 

There cometh sorrow now ; 
And is it strange, there should be grief 

For such a friend as thou ? 
That o'er me steals the swelling tide 

Of feeling, deep and strong, — 
O! who hath tongue or heart to chide, 

For is there aught of wronsr ? 



In grieving thus with those to part, 

Whom we have counted dear, 
"Whose image graven on the heart 

Shall ever bright appear ; 
Whose sacred memories shall remain 

As ne'er forsaken shrines, 
Where friendship links her silken chain, 

And hope her garland twines ? 



As falls upon the sullen wave 

The radiance of the star, 
That yearns to hail the light she gave, 

Reflected back afar ; 
But sees the gift she proffered, tost 

In ruthless scorn aside ; 
Forever sunk, forever lost 

Below the raginsr tide : 



o- 



-O 



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POEMS. 219 

So on this heartless world and cold, 

The sacred, hallowed hoard 
Of love, the spirit's priceless gold, 

Too oft is freely poured. 
And cast aside a worthless thing, 

Deceived and wounded too : 
Then is it strange, that I should cling 

Thus fondly to the true ? 



Farewell ! till spring shall cease to twine 

For earth her beauteous flowers. 
Till brighter summer suns shall shine 

On purer worlds than ours ; 
Till broken on an early grave 

The poet's harp shall be. 
And earth has claimed the dust she gave, 

I will remember thee. 



Kemember thee, and her who shares. 

With love that never dies, 
Thy joys and sorrows, hopes and cares, 

'Neath fortune's changing skies. 
God's blessing rest on thee and thine 

Till round his throne ye bow : — 
But tears are in these eyes of mine ; 

I must be silent now. 



O ^O 



o- 



-o 



220 



POEMS 



DEATH 



A MOTHER stood with her only child 

On the shore of a mighty river, 
And lingered near her a phantom wild, 

Who bore a bow and quiver. 

"With a shuddering frame that mother gazed 

On its dark and gloomy bearing, 
On the death-pale hand to its brow it raised, 

And the frown that brow was wearing. 

She saw it gazed on her darling hoy. 
And she wound her arms around him. 

As if she felt it could ne'er destroy 

Love's chains with which she had bound liim. 



o- 



But sad she turned from the shore away. 
And entered her home's sweet bowers ; 

And her beautiful child went out to play 
In the garden among the flowers. 



o ^ o 

POEMS. ^ 221 

But there broke from his lips a plaintive cry, 

And Ms mother found him weeping ; 
And she saw the phantom hovering nigh, 

As a vigil it were keeping. 

It had breathed on a plant, the pride and joy 
Of the child's fond heart that flourished : 

The plant had died ; and the tearful boy 
Was bent o'er the bud he nourished. 

The mother gazed, and she sadly knew 
Her child she should cease to cherish ; 

That her favorite plant would wither too, 
That her beautiful bud would perish. 

'T was eve, she sat in a darkened room. 



The child in her arms was lying, 
The phantom came with the gathering gloom, 
And she saw her boy was dying. 

He closed his eyes, and his spirit took 

Its flight from a world of sorrow ; 
His mother mourned, and she scorned the Book 

Where the smitten comfort borrow. 

At last, the cause of her heavy loss 

The Spirit of God revealed her, 
And she bent her low at the Saviour's cross. 

Where she found a balm that healed her. 

O '^ ■ ^O 



o o 



His hand the wounds of her heart bound up, 
And she hushed her loud repining; 

And meekly drank from affliction's cup, 
The cup of her Lord's assigning. 

Long years rolled by, and liis withering wing- 
Disease had unfolded o'er her; 

The wheel moved slow at life's ebbing spring, 
And the phantom stood before her. 

'T was Death: he came, but to swift destroy, 

A dart in his pale hand beai'ing ; 
' Strike I strike ! ' said she, with a voice of joy, 

TMiile a smile her hp was weai'ing. 

He struck ; but, changed to an angel bright, 

His pinions he bent toward her, 
And led her home to a world of hght, 

And the child she had lost restored her. 




O— o 



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POEMS. 223 



Tl BlIAL OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. 1 WESTMISTI ABBEY. 



[The interment of this poet took place on the 3d of July, in that part of 
the Abbey called the ' Poets' Comer.'] 

There came to the Abbey a funeral train, 

The corse of a minstrel bearing ; 
Wlaom the hand of the spoiler, death, had slain, 

While the laurel he yet was wearing. 

His lyre was broken, his wreath was crushed, 

And the flesh grew cold beneath it, 
As the tuneful lip of song was hushed, 

Wliich had fondly loved to breathe it. 

They came with a solemn step, and slow, 

With an aspect mute and lowly ; — 
With a brow of grief and an eye of woe, 

To the place of burial holy. 

They oped a grave in the charnel spot 

Where the deathless poets slumber; 
Whose lyres are broken, but not forgot, — 

And they gave him to their number. 

O 6 



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224 POEMS. 

They laid him down by the side of those 

Who are high in earthly glory ; 
With the dust of the mighty, who repose 

In the Abbey old and hoary. 

There monarchs lie ; but they have no crown, 

For their ghastly brow's adorning ; 
Ah, little dreamed they, in their high renown, 

The grave at their feet was yawning. 

And gallant knights, with the arms they bore, 

And their banners o'er them flying. 
And the rusted helms and crests they wore 

On their sculptured tombs are lying. 

Proud warriors sleep in the arms of fame, 

With the lofty marble o'er them; 
But what care they for their sounding name, 

Or the world that thither bore them ! 

Hark ! hark ! for the tones of music float 
Where the funeral train are kneeling, 

And the echoes of many a requiem note 
Are far tlnough the dim aisles stealing. 

O, many a glorious arch they fill. 

As the mourners rise to sever ; 
The souls of the living they wildly thrill. 

But the dead! they hear them never! 

o 6 



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POEMS. 225 



THE SOUL. 



Beautiful star on the brow of even, 
Brightest thou m the crown of heaven, 
Shedding afar thy silvery hght, 
Wreathing the wing of the shadowy night ; 
Tell us, thou gem of celestial birth, 
Where are the lost of the sons of earth ; 
Where are the spirits that upward soar, 
When moulders the mantle of dust they wore ? 

I asked, and the answer back was borne, 
As the star grew dim in the blaze of morn : 
' They pass me by in these regions fair, 
And I light them on, but I know not where.' 

Wave I proud Avave of the swelling sea, 
Hurrying by in thy wildness free. 
Laving the brow of the mariner, cold, 
Where the sea-weed lies in his garments' fold, 
Leaving thy foam in his clustering hair, 
Where sparkle bright pearls of a beauty rare, 
We know that his clay in the deep abyss 
Lies low, but his spirit, O tell us of this ! 

6 6 



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226 POEMS. 

A voice came back from the bounding tide, 
' I hold their dust in my arms who died ; 
And over their graveless bones I roll, 
But nought I know of the deathless soul.' 

Grave ! deep grave, in the mouldering sod 
Of the flower unplucked, and the grass untrod. 
From the festal hall and the friendship bower, 
And the fireside hearth, in a sad, dark hour, 
Our kindred pass to thy realms of gloom ; 
Manhood and childhood, and age and bloom: 
O, where are the spirits the frames enshrined, 
With tears to thy conquering arms consigned ? 

Their came a voice from her ancient realms. 
Whose fearful stillness the soul o'erwhelms : 
' I garner the dust of the loved ye miss ; 
It is mine, it is mine, and I hold but this.' 

O man of doubt! 'tis a joyous brow, 
And a fearless heart that thou bearest now. 
For thou art strong in thy manhood's prime. 
And thy days roll on in their golden time ; 
But mightier far in the tomb lie low, — 
Thou, too, shall fall by the reaper's blow: 
O what is thy soul, and where will it roam 
When thy dust is borne to its charnel home ? 



O O 



o- 



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POEMS. 227 



Pale was the hue of the skeptic's cheek, 
Quivered his lips as they oped to speak ; 
He cried, with scorn in his flashing eye, 
' The soul is of dust, and with dust shall die ! ' 

O dying saint ! with a feeble breath, 

And brow all cold with the damps of death. 

Swift wanes the sun of thy closing years. 

But it brighter glows as it disappears ; 

And thy lips are wreathed with a smile of bhss, 

Struggling and dying, what meaneth this ? 

Is a hope to thee of new life revealed ? 

O tell us, ere death has thy cold lips sealed. 

He answered me in a joyful strain : 
' I die, but I die to live again ; 
The souls of the just with their Maker dwell 
Li glory forever and ever ! — farewell ! ' 




o- 



-o 



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228 POEMS. 



TO MI MOTHER. 



Mother ! dear mother I a song for tlaee, 
Thou shalt the theme of the minstrel be ; 
Thou, who didst smile on the ruder lays, 
I warbled first in my early days. 
'Tis the hand of a daughter sweeps the lyre, 
With a lip whose melody shall not tire, 
Till the brow is cold and the eye is dim, 
Of her who carolled my cradle hymn. 



Mother ! dear mother ! when I was a child, 

I loved the hill and the greenwood wild, 

"Where the silver song of the soaring bird 

And the circling insect's hum is heard ; 

Dearer to me than my childish play 

Were the haunts I sought in the summer day, 

But there was a greater love for thee, 

In the heart that clung to the flower and tree. 



O O 



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POEMS. 229 

Mother ! dear mother ! as oft I strayed, 
To muse alone in the woodland glade, 
They called me gloomy, they called me strange, 
But little dreamed they of the wondrous change 
Which the spell of poesy, sweet and wild, 
Soon wrought in the heart of thy pensive child; 
And little dreamed they of the lyre she swept. 
Where the old oak's shade on the green turf slept. 



Mother ! dear mother ! when years had past, 
Sweet years, that fled on their pinions fast. 
The angel of death his shadow flung, 
Where our silvery how of Hope was hung ; 
And we stood together, side by side. 
Where a father sank in his manhood's pride ; 
Together we caught the parting sigh. 
As the soul was borne to the world on high. 



Mother ! dear mother ! my spirit strays 
Oft back to the scenes of my early days. 
And the brightest links that bind me there, 
Are the memories sweet of thy love and care ; 
But, ah, 't was not till I fondly prest 
My own first-born to my yearning breast, 
I dreamed of the hour of agony. 
The sorrow, which thou hadst borne for me. 



O O 



-o 



Mother ! deai- mother ! I watch thee now, 
With a beating heart and an anxions brow, 
I watch thy step as thon passest by — 
I mark the hght of thy fading eye ; 
For I know that Time is upon thy track, 
And bears to the grave what he brings not 

back — 
Spare, Father of mercy, my loved one spare, 
A mother's hfe is a daughter's prayer. 



Mother ! dear mother ! when death draws nigh, 
And rends in thy breast each sacred tie ; 
When the doAvnward path thy feet shall txead, 
That leads to the mansions of the dead; 
May the better world, like a glorious star. 
Gleam through the mists of the vale afar ; 
Thy guide may the precious Saviour be. 
And the heavenly gates ope wide for thee. 




O O 



O : O 

POEMS. 231 



THE ABSENT. 



The friends of my bosom ! I cannot forget them, 
Through changes and seasons still cherished 
they are ; 

Bright gems in the crown of affection I set them, 
And its brilhance is dim, though but one is afar. 

Tlie absent! the absent! their voice sweetly 

lingers 

In my listening ear ; yet, I may hear not again ; 

And the chords of my spirit, when memory fingers, 

Give back, 'neath the pressure, a sorrowful 

strain. 

When the shadows of eve are serenely de- 
scending. 
And the last golden beams of the sunset appear, 
And day with dim night in soft twilight is 
blending, 
O, oft to my spirit the absent are here. 

o o 



o— o 

232 POEMS. 

When the weary world vexes the hushed soul 
no longer, 
And the silver stars light the still earth with 
their beams, 
And fetters of slumber grow deeper and stronger, 
They pass through the land, the bright land of 
my dreams. 

They glide o'er my vision, and bear the sweet 
token 
Of friendship, that soothed in the days that 
are flown; 
The busy morn breaks and the sleep spell is 
broken, 
The dear phantoms vanish, and I am alone. 

When the eager crowd toil in the strife of 
existence, 
And throng after throng moves unceasingly by, 
I fondly imagine the loved in the distance. 

But they wear the cold faces of strangers 
when nigh. 

And my drooping heart sinks in its own deso- 
lation. 
Where loudest and deepest life's tumult 
may be ; 
For it sickens and bleeds in its vain expectation 
Of the distant, the absent, it yearneth to see. 

6 — — ■ — o 



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POEMS, 233 

O ! the cold world may meet, and meet only to 
sever, 
And affection's torn wreath not a tear-drop 
may wet, 
But my heart, when it loves, must love onward 
forever, 
It cannot forget ; no, it cannot forget. 

In trial and pain, tribulation and sorrow, 

Some soothing remembrance comes sweetly 
to cheer. 
Ah, worthless were friendship, if nought she 
could borrow 
Of comfort and hope when the loved are not 
here. 

Away, O, away, ye dark moments of sadness. 
And hail blissful promise of mansions on high ; 

Where the tear shall be dried in the sunsliine 
of gladness. 
And the absent be present, eternaUy nigh. 



O O 



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234 POEMS. 



THE ANGEL'S YISIT. 



An angel from above the skies, 

The heavenly Eden's bowers, 
Came down, unseen by mortal eyes, 

To view this world of ours ; 
Sweet scenes he saw, that would recall 

His own bright land again, 
But sin's dark curse had marred them aU, 

The fairest wore a staia. 



Strange sights the angel saw below, 

That stirred his bosom deep. 
And made the founts of grief o'erflow, 

For angels e'en may weep. 
He saw his Master's holy cross 

By mortal feet trod down, 
The deatliless soul esteemed no loss 

To win a fleetmg crown. 



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POEMS. 235 I 

He passed by many a gorgeous fane, 

That human hands upraise, 
"Wliere dust o'er dust is proud to reign 

A few brief passing days ; 
The richest mansions earth has given, 

To deck their httle spot, 
But what were they, to those in heaven ? 

The angel marked them not. 



He heard the songs of festal mirth 

They chant, who revel here. 
But, oh ! the sweetest strains of earth 

Fell harshly on his ear ; 
His thoughts went back, to where ascends 

The music of the skies. 
Where love with purest rapture blends 

In hearts whose voices rise. 



But owe thing here the angel saw 

That could from heaven beguile. 
And mid the scenes the just abhor 

His pinions stay awhile ; 
He saw contrition's earnest tear 

Roll down a sinner's cheek, 
That marked the spirit's grief sincere, 

Grief lips can never speak. 



O ■ ^ O 



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236 POEMS. 

He saw sin's heavy burden borne 

To Calvary's sacred tree, 
The soul, m chains it long had worn, 

Pray that it might be free ; 
And when he saw its fetters riven, 

Its load at Jesus' feet, 
He stretched his wings and soared to heaven 

To bear the tidings sweet. 



Then countless harps were quickly strung 

Wliere golden streets are trod, 
The victory of the Lamb was sung. 

The sinner's birth to God ! 
Ye sons of earth, if change like tliis 

Moves heavenly beings so, 
O ! what must be the world of bliss, 

And what the loorld of woe I 



^^ 



o— ^O 



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POEMS. 237 



FLOWERS IN WINTER. 



Ye come in summer's sweet array, 

Ye beautiful and bright, 
Though colder sunbeams round ye play 

And shed a paler light. 

Ye come to rouse, in wintry days, 
Glad thoughts of summer's bloom ; 

"When birds pour forth their thriUing lays, 
And flowers the gales perfume. 

Abroad the storm is howling loud, 

Rough winds sweep to and fro. 
And earth lies silent 'neath her shroud 

Of newly fallen snow. 

Ye, sheltered, calmly view the scene ; 

As if the skies of May 
Looked smiling down on fields of green ; 

That stretched beneath them lay. 

6 O 



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238 POEMS. 

Oft o'er your lovely forms, the child 

In wonder stoops to gaze, 
To watch some opening charm, beguiled 

From late enchanting plays. 

Ye look like old familiar friends, 

And such ye are to me ; 
And, till stern death existence ends, 

So shall ye ever be. 

We know that summer flowers are fair. 

But they are frequent too ; 
And 'tis because that ye are rare, 

We fondly turn to you. 

Because, when autumn's ruthless blast 

Hath laid your kindred low, 
Ye, blooming, bring us back the past, 

So late that charmed us so. 

O, Flowers in Winter ! glad we hail 

Amid the raging storms. 
That wildly sweep o'er hill and vale. 

Your bright and beauteous forms. 



O O 



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POEMS. 239 



THE SNOW -WRITTEN DURING A STORM. 



Oh, the wintry snow ! 

When the north winds blow 
On their pinions strong and high, 

And the tempest shrouds, 

With its sullen clouds, 
The arch of the pleasant sky. 

How soft and white, 

Like a mantle light, 
It falls on the hill and plain, 

Where the flowerets gay, 

In the summer day. 
Bloomed bright in the gentle rain. 

Where sang the brook, 

As its course it took 
Through the meadow, by the hill, 

There comes no sound. 

For the frozen ground 
Hath silenced the joyous rill. 

O 6 



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240 POEMS. 

Where hummed the bee 

On the flowery lea, 
He skimmed with his waxen spoil, 

In an eddying whirl, 

The snow-flakes curl, 
And bury the barren soil. 

Fast, fast they come 

From their northern home, 
With a light and feathery form. 

Loud shrieks the blast. 

As it hurries past, 
Like a spirit of the storm. 

The gladsome child, 

With his laughter wild. 
Looks up in the frowning sky, 

And the huge snow-drifts. 

And the wreaths and rifts, 
He hails with a gleammg eye. 

O, a stirring sight 

Is the tempest white. 
When the winds of winter blow ; 

And the child leaps out. 

With a merry shout, 
On the newly fallen snow. 



o O 



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POEMS. 241 



THE PIRATE TO HIS BARK, 



Now give thy swelling sails again, 

My proud bark, to the breeze, 
Strike terror to the hearts of men 

Upon the rolling seas ; 
Thou, thou alone canst fearless mock 
The storm-god's wrath, the billow's shock. 

Old ocean's sons with blood and death 

Admit thy boundless claim, 
And landsmen whisper 'neath their breath, 

The pirate GuUbert's name ; 
Ha ! greater conquests shall be thine, 
And greater honors yet be mine. 

For men shall dread us, as they dread 

Some dark and fearful thing ; 
Destruction in thy path shall tread, 

And death ride on thy wing, — 
Thou eagle of the mountain waves, 
Thou filler of deep, watery graves. 

21 

O O 



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242 POEMS. 

Proud kings shall tremble on their thrones 

When they shall hear of thee, 
And mourn their countless subjects' bones 

All mouldering in the sea ; 
Then shall they rage, but rage in vain, 
At him who sways the swelling main. 

Their servile empire is the land, 

Ours is the mighty deep. 
From isle to isle, from strand to strand, 

Free as the waves we sweep ; 
None dare the pirate's bark to harm, 
Or with him vie for victory's palm. 

Oft stately ships shall leave the port 

With skilled hands at the helm. 
No storms shall make those ships their sport. 

No giant waves o'erwhelm; 
But back they never shall return. 
To eyes that strain, and hearts that yearn. 

When none shall come to tell the tale, 
Where those lost barks shall be, 

Let not men ask the roaring gale, 
The wild tumultuous sea ; 

But let them ask the pirate, brave, 

Where England's children make their grave. 

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POEMS. 243 

On ! on ! my gallant bark, the sky 

"With gathering tempest lowers, 
The sea-gull hurries screaming by, 

And seeks the white-clified shores ; 
On ! on ! proud bhd, untamed and free, 
And scorn the storm, and rule the sea. 



Thus spake the pirate Guilbert, bold. 

And heaven and earth defied, 
But soon deep thunders loudly rolled 

Above the raging tide ; 
And fiercely blew the tempest's blasts. 
And bowed the sailless, straining masts. 

Ked lightning lit the vessel's deck, 

The daring pirate's form, 
And made that haughty bark a wreck. 

The scorned, insulted storm ; 
The wild waves yawned and hurried down 
Bold Guilbert and his proud renown. 




O O 



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244 POEMS. 



WASHING DAY- 



O, WASHING day ! O, washing day, 
When suds and tubs the kitchen sway, 

"What horrors hail thy dawning ; 
The muses fret for lack of time, 
To lie in bed and dream in rhyme 

Upon a Monday morning. 

The women scold, the children cry, 
And husbands heave a heavy sigh, 

In stupid wonder staring 
Upon their better halves, who seem, 
While toihng on through smoke and steam, 

For man nor devil caring ! 



The very dog draws in his tail, 
And shuns the dripping water-pail 

As though he mad were running ; 
The cat, with suds-bespattered fur, 
Hevengeful, cuffs the luckless cur. 

In vain her precincts shunning. 

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POEMS. 245 

The breakfast stands with coffee cold, 
And bread, I wager, nine days old, 

For hungry stomach's craving ; 
O, blest is he, whose appetite 
Departed with the Sabbath night, 

Both food and sorrow saving. 

Anxiety sits on each brow 

That hovers o'er the washtub now, 

O mortal, hear the reason ; 
It is the day appointed here 
To purify the household gear, 

A most important season. 

See red arms wring the garments out. 
Zounds ! how the water flies about, 
The kitchen looks infernal ; 
' Please inarm,' implores the trembhng child, 
' Out of my ivay,' with gesture wild, 
Responds a voice maternal. 

But, lo, on fancy's soaring wings 
A weight of suds the washer flings, 

Amid this fearful plashing ; 
And O, ye gods ! upon my word, 
They've made the lyre a scrubbing-board, 

And set the muse to washing ! 

21* 

6 ^ 



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246 POEMS. 

Now pendant from the lengthened line, 
Where brightest sunbeams warmest sliine, 

See divers garments drying; 
Of every shape, and size, and hue ; 
Red, yellow, gi'een, and white, and blue, 

High on the breezes flying. 

What if the cord should snap in twain ? 
Gracious ! 't were worse than even rain, 

May all the saints preserve us ; 
Ten thousand woes beyond I see, 
That wait on such catastrophe, 

Whose thoughts e'en make me nervous. 

O washing day ! half o'er the globe, 
Known as the natal day of Job, 

And often cursed by many, 
If thou hast pity for the bard. 
Or for the muses hast regard, 

Come oftener dark and rainy. 

For when descends a glorious rain. 
And eastward rusts the weather-vane, 

Upon thy gloomy dawning. 
The muses grumble not for time 
To lie in bed and dream in rhyme, 

Even on a Monday morning ! 

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POEMS. 247 



THE SLAYE SHIP. 



And who is she with banner proud 

That rides from yonder strand, 
Upon whose deck a sable crowd, 

In heavy fetters stand ? 
Wliy fix they on that fading shore 

Their sorrow-streaming eyes. 
Till cloud-capped mounts are seen no more, 

And all in distance dies ? 

What hath that vessel in her hold, 

A dark and narrow cell ; 
The shining silver and the gold, 

That mortals love so well ? 
Bright jewels from the far off mines 

Of Asia's fruitful soil, 
Wrought where the sunlight never shines, 

But men in darkness toil ? 

Or spices from the burning isles 

That gem the tropic seas. 
Where endless summer sweetly smiles 

On fadeless flowers and trees ? 

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248 POEMS. 

Or silks from Persia's splendid loom, 

Whose lustre never pales, 
Surpassing e'en the roses' bloom, 

In Cashmere's beauteous vales? 

Not these, not these, that vessel brings, 

Swift o'er the heaving main — 
Hark ! for a groan of anguish rings. 

And rattling of a chain ! 
She hath a freight of liumian flesh, 

And bears it to our shore, 
"With scourge and sword wound bleeding fresh. 

And hearts by sorrow tore. 

The chieftain and his royal court, 

Sire, wife, and child she parts. 
Whose tears and groans are made the sport 

Of men of brutal hearts. 
The lash goes whirling through the air, 

To still each sob and cry; 
And in the silence of despair. 

Those helpless victims lie. 

Shame ! for yon fearful sight denotes 

A slave ship rideth she, 
While o'er her, high in mockeiy, floats 

The banner of the free ! 
Shame ! that a bark like this should dip 

Her bows in ocean's brine. 
They say a Christian mans the ship — 

God ! is he one of thine ! 

O ^ O 



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POEMS. 249 



THE PROPHETIC BARK. 



The Hindoo girls have a custom, when their lovers are absent, of 
launching tiny boats, freighted with rice and other offerings, to some 
deity, accompanied Avith a small taper, which, if extinguished by the 
waves of the stream, in consequence of the overturn of the boat, is 
the sure sign of the death of the absent lover. On the contrary, if it 
gains some shore unextinguished, they, with equal credulity, regard 
it as portending safe and speedy returns. 

' Go forth my bark upon the tide, 
Thou child of hope and fear ; 
Safe o'er the treacherous billows ride, 
And I will watch thee here. 

' If far adown the moonlit stream, 
Thy beacon hght I view, 
One, whose sweet love seems like a dream. 
Shall come to prove it true. 

' But if the quenching wave shall roll 
O'er that dear light of thine, 
Hope finds a grave within my soul, 
Despair and death are mine ! ' 

Thus spake the Hindoo girl, and gave 

The stream her fragile bark. 
And watched it, dancing o'er the wave, 

Send forth its cheering spark. 

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250 POEMS. 

Awhile, its onward course it kept, 

Safe in lier straining view, 
But dark clouds o'er the pale moon swept, 

And wild winds harshly blew. 

The frail light rocked upon the tide, 
Now iDrightened, now grew pale ; 

The breathless maid, the stream beside, 
Prayed that it might prevail. 

But angry waves o'erwhelmed the boat. 

The beacon disappeared, 
No more upon their breast afloat, 

The maiden's heart it cheered. 

A cry rose on the midnight air, 

From pale, sad lips it burst ; 
The mournful wailing of despair. 

Whence hope's glad tones came first. 

With bitter tears she turned away, 

With grief all else above ; 
For in her woman's bosom lay 

The pangs of hopeless love. 

When next they came with anxious breath 
To watch their frail bark's gleam. 

There was one less to read of death 
On that foreboding stream ! 

O O 



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POEMS. 251 



J.P— E. DJ. 



I GAZE ; the canvass kindling glows, 
"With hues the pencil ne'er bestows, 
With hues the living only wear, 
For life itself seems beaming there : 
The light breeze stirs the locks of snow 
That e'er in graceful freedom flow, 
The lofty brow from thought unbends, 
The ready ear attention lends ; 
The eye beams forth the soul awhile, 
Plays o'er the lips their wonted smile. 
'Tis life, and yet not life, for sealed 
Are lips that welcome words revealed ; 
In vain I linger near the spot, 
The voice I heard, I hear it not. 
'Tis life, and yet not life, the tear, 
That falls for those who suffer here, 
Wlio 'neath misfortune's wounds have bled. 
The soulless canvass cannot shed. 
Those features cold to me impart 
No warm emotions of the heart. 
For such to paint, so swift they rise, 
The boldest pencil powerless lies. 
Thought's shadows flitting o'er the face. 
No mortal hand can ever trace. 

O o 



o — o 

I 

252 POEMS. 

O wheresoe'er my eye they meet, 
And voicelessly my spirit greet, 
A thousand portraits cannot be, 
Though true to life, one friend to me ; 
One living, breathing friend, whose tone 
Makes answering music to my own ! 
But yet, on such I love to gaze. 
The second self that art portrays, 
And with the aid sweet fancy gives 
To fondly deem each feature lives. 
That reigns within the sacred soul 
And lights with life diffused, the whole ; 
It brings, as if by magic powers, 
The loved ones back who once were ours : 
So when of him, so dear, bereft, 
This noble work alone is left, — ■ 
And long may heaven's unerring hand 
Forbear to write the high command. 
Long bind the angel's sweeping wing, 
Wlio shall the sacred summons bring ; 
Long spare a life to us, to earth. 
So rich with zeal, so crowned with worth. 
But when a conqueror death has been, 
The soul hath soared, released from sin ; 
To us, who then shall mourn in vain. 
Amidst our wounded spirit's pain. 
How sweetly shall the canvass tell 
What once was he, we loved so well ! 

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POEMS. 253 



THE CROSS OF CHRIST. 



Cross of Jesus! Christian's glory! 
Shining through his falling tears, 
Burning on the page of story, 

Brightening through the gloom of years : 
Cross of Jesus ! 
Glorious e'er thy form appears. 

Eock of Ages ! man's Salvation ! 

Shelter, shield from wrath divine ; 
Holy hope and consolation, 
Joyfully I call thee mine : 
Glad I hail thee. 
Beams unfading round thee shine. 

When the shades of sin and sorrow 

Gather darkly round my wslj, 
Light from thee, O may I borrow, 
Guiding to the perfect day : 
Light celestial, 
Pure and unbeclouded ray. 

22 

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254 POEMS. 

When temptations sore assail me, 

And my fainting heart would yield, 
In the warfare never fail me, 

Let thy presence aid and shield : 
Heavenly weapons 
May I e'er triumphant wield. 

When the hopes of earth deceive me, 
And her words have proved untrue ; 
Wandering, sorrowing, O receive me, 
Dawn upon my gloomy view : 
Peace and pardon 
Through Immanuel's blood renew. 

When the damps of death are stealing 

O'er my frame with anguish riven, 
To my struggling soul revealing. 
Summons by her Maker given : 
Cross of Jesus, 
Fail me not, till safe in heaven ! 



O O 




Sue ceased, her sire.insjjiied.unlashrni 
The boat, and seized dxe oar. 



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POEMS. 255 



GRACE DARLING. 



Old Ocean's waves rolled wild and high, 

And angry surges roared, 
While fiercely down a stormy sky 

Unceasing torrents poured. 
The lightning's fitful flashing, showed 

A wrecking vessel's form, 
That tossed on giant billows rode, 

A plaything of the storm. 



Her white sails rent are streaming high 

Against the frowning skies. 
And where the deep goes whirling by 

Her fallen banner lies. 
She reels, she plunges, — bounds, recedes, 

And now her towering masts 
Bow meekly down, like bended reeds, 

Before the mighty blasts. 



O o 



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256 POEMS. 

Hark ! hark ! a wail, a fearful cry 

To land the strong winds bear, 
In every tone is agony, 

In every note, despair ! 
Death hovers round that bark of doom. 

He lingers for his prey. 
And 'neath his feet a yawning tomb 

The parting waves display. 



They rear their foam-crests high, that crowd 

Of living men they crave ; 
And shall they in their "watery shroud 

Enfold the good, the brave? 
O, who shall snatch them from the brink 

"Where ruin opens wide ? 
The boldest landsmen shuddering shrink 

To stem that awful tide. 



Far, far away tipon the shore 

A simple maiden stands ; 
Snatched from a boat, a slender oar 

Lies in her folded hands. 
Each rude breeze, as it hurries by, 

Flings back her clustering hair, 
While flashes from her earnest eye 

A hope that scorns despair. 



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POEMS. 257 

' My father ! shall that bark,' she cries, 
' Go down in yonder sea ? 
In vain for aid those prayers arise ? 

It must not, cannot be ! 
Unmoor the boat ! away, away ! 

I will not linger here ; 
This is no season for delay, 
No time for doubt and fear. 



* I would be gone ; my father, dare 

With me to succor fly, 
To save yon helpless victims there, 

To brave the flood or die. 
A few brief moments, and each tongue 

The choking wave shall hush. 
And where those cries and groans have rung 

O'erwhelmins waters rush. 



' Heed, heed that wail of deep distress 

To us the tempest bears ; 
O, let us prize our lives the less 

Perchance to rescue theirs ! 
Fear not for me, my hand is strong, 

My heart is stronger still ; 
And God, to whom these waves belong, 

Can quell them at his will.' 



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258 POEMS. 

She ceased ; her sire, inspired, imlashed 

The boat and seized the oar, 
And fearless o'er the billows dashed, 

That laved the sheltering shore. 
There stood an angel bright beside 

The maiden at the helm, 
He stayed the flood, he soothed the tide, 

Nor dared a wave o'erwhelm. 

•She gazed upon the skies above. 

The lightning's blazing path. 
With holy faith, and hope, and love, 

That awed the storm-god's wrath. 
And safe they reached the sinking wreck, 

"Where raging tempests blew, 
And bore from off her briny deck 

Her pale, despairing crew. 

Then swiftly through the breaking foam 

The quivering boat scuds back, 
And bears her burden safely home. 

Though death is on the track. 
Unhurt by wind, and storm, and wave, 

Upon the beaten strand, 
The rescued from a watery grave 

With loud thanksgiving stand. 

How felt she then ? that noble one, 
Whose aid deliverance wrought ; 

And ere destruction's work was done 
The ark of safety brought. 

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POEMS. 259 

Compassion's tears had ceased to flow, 

Her beating heart was stilled ; 
A joy as sweet as angels know 

Her pure, young spirit filled. 

Days passed ; a glorious meed of fame 

Time to the maiden bore ; 
And thousands breathed her hallowed name 

Unheard, unknown before. 
She cared not for the great world's praise, 

StUl nature's artless child, 
And shrank from admiration's gaze, 

A spirit undefiled. 

But vain are wreaths to bind her brow, 

Or song's sweet tributes given, 
The world's applause she heeds not now, 

Grace Darling is in heaven ! 
She hath reward, ■ — the robe, the crown, 

The harp of heavenly tone, 
The smiles of God, the high renown 

Of those around the throne. 

And while its rest her spirit takes 

In that pure, blissful sphere, 
Her deed of noble daring makes 

Her name immortal here. 
The muse of England's poets, fired. 

Shall waft it o'er the main ; 
And transatlantic bards, inspired, 

Roll back the deathless strain ! ~ 

O O 



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260 POEMS. 



A NAMELESS GRAVE. 



A NAMELESS gravc ! a nameless grave ! 

How dreary is the spot ; 
So tall the weeds that o'er it wave, 

The stranger heeds it not. 
He gazes with admiring eye 

On marbles of renown, 
But this he coldly passes by, 

Or tramples rudely down. 

Who slumbers here ? a little child, 

That, wearied of its play, 
Looked on its mother's face and smiled, 

Then passed from earth away ! 
At whose glad tones the summer birds 

Would chant a sweeter strain. 
But now for whose soft, winning words 

They pine, but pine in vain? 

Some aged pilgrim may repose 

Beneath this nameless stone, 
Where long have gathered wintry snows, 

And summer suns have shone ; 

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POEMS. 261 

He may have passed to death's cold rest, 

Far from his native land ; 
His dying horn* uncheered, miblest, 

By kind compassion's hand. 

Perchance a warrior slumbers here, 

In faded glory's gloom, 
"With rusted sword and broken spear, 

And shattered helm and plume ; 
Who bravely fell in battle's strife. 

By slaughter's furious breath, 
"Who found a rest denied in life. 

Forever his in death. 

Perchance a child of hopes and fears, 

A minstrel here is laid, 
"Whose lyre, his life a few brief years, 

Too soon his death was made. 
The night wind pours an earnest strain. 

As here she hurries by, 
As if she sought to wake again 

Some buried melody. 

Tread lightly on the nameless grave, 

Unhonored by renown, 
Though tall the weeds that o'er it wave, 

Forbear to crush them down ; 
O I hallowed ever be the dust, 

The humblest may contain, 
Heaven gives to earth a sacred trust 

It soon will ask again ! 

O : ^O 



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262 POEMS. 



VOICE OF THE AUTUMN WIND. 



Mournfully the wind is sighing 
Through the barren forest trees; 

Hark ! it whispers, swelhng, dying, 
Hark ! a warning frona the breeze. 

Mortal, wake ! thy years are numbered, 
Soon shall pass those years away ; 

Long to duty hast thou slumbered, 
Up ! her frequent calls obey. 

Like the leaves thus rudely scattered, 

Faded by thy chilling breath, 
Shall thy earthly hopes be shattered. 

And thy beauty marred by death. 

Earthly friends, and joys, and pleasures, 
Fade and die like autiimn leaves ; 

While the heart, whose idol treasures 
Once they flourished, vainly grieves. 

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POEMS. 263 

Frail and fleeting is existence 

Unto man allotted here ; 
With the oldest, short the distance 

From the cradle to the bier. 

Changes come without a warning, 

Fortune flatters to deceive. 
Oft she sweetly smiles at morning, 

Then as coldly frowns at eve. 

Human friendship is unstable, 

Happiness men seek but miss ; 
God alone, to give is able, 

Friendship true, and lasting bliss. 

Seek then earthly things no longer, 

Aim not to be worldly wise ; 
Build thy hopes on something stronger — 

Seek a kingdom in the skies. 

Bear with patience all the crosses, 

Evils of thy mortal birth ; 
Let thy trials, pains, and losses 

Serve to wean thee from the earth. 

He who strives to do his duty. 
Treads the path his Master trod ; 

Hath immortal life and beauty, 
In the Paradise of God. 

o o 



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264 POEMS. 



TEE MOON. 



Beautiful moon ! O liow I love to liail 
Thy glorious coming in the eastern sky, 
When starry gems along thy pathway lie ; 
Trembling, and turning in thy presence pale, 
Brightest adorner of night's pensive brow. 
Fairest of all her radiant jewels, thou ! 

Wreathing with light the fleecy cloud, that veils 
"With its thin mantle, for a little space, 

The full-orbed lustre of thy beaming face, — 
Casting thy splendor on the sleeping dales. 
Fields, woods, and waters that beneath thee rest. 
With night's dark shadows on their peaceful 

breast. 
O, I do love thee ! but the most, sweet moon. 
In the still hour of midnight's sacred noon ; 
Calm then are spirits that with day have striven. 
And earth's repose seems kin to that of heaven ! 



O O 



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POEMS. 265 



RETURN TO MY BOSOM. 



Return to my bosom, beloved one, return ! 

My heart for thy presence hath ceased not to 

yearn, 
Mine eyes for thy coming are dim with their strain, 
And mine ear hath grown weary with waiting 

in vain. 

Return to my bosom — the toils of the day, 
Its cares and its sorrows are passing away ; 
The last golden sunbeam has faded and gone, 
And the shadows of even are fast stealing on. 

Return to my bosom — lo, yonder afar 
There shines in the heaven a beautiful star ; 
But, ah ! not a charm in its lustre I see. 
For the star of my home hath not risen on me. 

Return to my bosom — return to the rest 
Thou often hast whispered thou lovest the best ; 
As sweetly and purely I set on thy brow 
A seal of affection that lingereth now. 

O — O 



o- 



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266 



POEMS 



Return to my bosom — my heart is thine own, 
In youth thou hast won it, and round it hast thrown 
A spell that shall linger till life's latest breath, 
More sacred than friendship, and stronger than 
death. 

Return to my bosom — O tarry not long, 
My heart for thy presence is pining in song ; 
Come, haste thee to gladden thy sorrowing dove, 
Return to thy chosen, return to thy love. 




o- 



-O 



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POEMS. 267 



TEMPUS PUGIT. 



Temptjs Fugit ! golden hours 

Rapid flight are steahng, 
Like the frost among the flowers 

Changes sad reveahng. 

Tempiis Fugit ! lo ! a child 

By a streamlet playing, 
Or among the greenwoods wild, 

Free and happy straying, 

Tempus Fugit ! now a youth 
Bounds with footsteps fleeting, 

Deeming every promise truth, 
Pleasure never cheating. 

Tempus Fugit ! woe and care 
Manhood's bloom are blighting, 

Scenes and hopes once sweetly fair 
Fortune stern is smiting. 

6 -6 



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268 



Tempus Fugit ! hoary age 
Childhood sadly blending, 

Toys of infant years engage, 
Downward swift descending, 

Tempus Fugit ! lo ! a shroud 
And a grave preparing, 

And the bier a sable crowd 
Thither slow are bearing. 

Tempus Fugit I hark ! a bell 

Solemnly is pealing, 
Strikes the ear a funeral knell 

On the breezes steaHng. 

Tempus Fngit ! lo I the end 

Of the hfe ye covet ! 
Ye w^hose spirits earthward bend, 

Cease, oh ! cease to love it ! 




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POEMS 



269 



MEETING OE EEIENDS. 



WRITTEN WHILE ABSENT FROM HOME. 



How sweet the hour, how passing sweet 

The tide of moments flow, 
When friends again with rapture meet, 

Who parted long ago. 

And while far distant yet appear 

The happy homes they fill ; 
What expectation, hope, and fear, 

The inmost spirit thrill ! 

To expectation's music tongue 
The heart beats swift and high. 

While hope's enchanting bow is flung 
Across a sunny sky ; — 



o- 



Fear cometli, like a cloud, to hide 
The brightness of the bow, 

But, bursting forth on every side, 
It gilds its gloomy foe. 



-o 



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270 POEMS. 

And nearer as the objects be 

Of fond expecting love, 
The spirit struggles to be free, 

Like an imprisoned dove. 

How tardily the moments seem 

To urge their weary pace ! 
How often in some midnight dream 

The absent we embrace ! 

Though many changes may have passed 

O'er those we left behind, 
'Tis only as we saw them last 

They come before the mind. 

O, joy for him, joy not of earth, 

Who gains his native land, 
And finds around his glowing hearth 

An undivided hand. 

But woe for him who cometh back. 

Across the billow's foam, 
To gaze upon the spoiler's track 

Within his happy home. 

For bitter, bitter is the pain 

The anguished heart must bear. 
That finds, on clasping love's sweet chain, 

A linh is wanting there ! 

o 6 



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POEMS. 271 



S ONNET. 



O, THERE are moments wlieii the tide of song 
Rolls o'er my spirit with o'erwhelming power, 
And onward borne through many a swift- 
winged hour, 

My joyful harp-strings their wild notes prolong. 

And radiant visions round my pathway throng, 
Wliile golden hopes the future brightly gild, 
Till with their liigh aspirings I am fiUed. 

Long fancy weaves her spell around me, long 

The sweet enchantress thrills my raptured breast. 
Until the stern realities of hfe, 
Its storms, and sorrows, and its jarring strife, 

Dim the bright wing of moments far too blest. 
And from my spirit harshly, coldly blot 

All, save the memory — this forsakes me not. 



O O 



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272 POEMS. 



THE DREAM OF THE DYING POET. 



I DREAMED a clreaiii in the midnight hour, 
When the spell of sleep hath mightiest power, 
And wildest visions come thronging by 
Thro' the fancy world of the fast-closed eye. 

I gazed on the radiant goddess, Fame, 
And sought to win from her lips a name ; 
A glittering wreath of the laurel bough, 
In her hand she held for the victor's brow. 

I sought her prize, and her race to run. 
And my heart beat high as I deemed it won ; 
I stretched my hand for the glorious wreath. 
There came between us the angel Death ! 

A blight stole over the garland fair. 
The green leaves died in their freshness there; 
And he flung the wreath, in its faded bloom, 
On the withered turf of an open tomb. 

6 — 6 



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POEMS. 273 

My palsied hand in its eager clasp, 

Met nought but the spoiler's icy grasp, 

While strange, dark words from his hollow tongue, 

And the knell of hope in my chilled ear rung. 

' Ha ! not thy brow shall the wreath adorn ; 
Look there, look there on the garland torn ; 
For the glittering boon thou didst fondly crave 
Is a broken harp and an early grave ! 

' Fame calls the world, but she calls not thee. 
The cup JfiU shall thy portion be ; 
I will crush thy hopes in their budding bright, 
I will dim thy star in its dawning light ! ' 

He ceased, and a fearful anguish stole 

O'er my shrinking frame, and my shuddering soul; 

And I yielded up at his feet my breath : 

I had sought for Fame, I had found but Death ! 

I woke, but the vision haunts me now. 
It casts a shade on my path and brow ; 
And oft there rings in my startled ear 
That kneU of hope, and that voice of fear. 

Ah, no ! the garland of Fame may twine 
The brows of others, but never mine, — 
I may not win from thy lips a name, 
Death is between us, oh, radiant Fame ! 

O O 



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274 POEMS. 



TO THE MEMORY OF A BELOYED FATHER. 



Oh ! how it thrilled through my aching heart, 
When they told me thou wert dying, — 

Tliat the mighty conqueror's icy dart 
In thy throbbing breast was lying. 

Thy hand was cold as the frozen snow, 
And thy pulse had ceased its beating. 

For the crimson tide in thy veins ebbed low, 
To its quivering source retreating. 

I bent me down o'er thy dying bed. 

To hst to thy heavy breathing, 
And my tears fell fast on thy pillowed head, 

"Which the mists of death were wreathing, 

A change passed o'er thy face so pale, 

As the last frail cord was riven, 
And thy spirit entered the gloomy vale, 

With its angel guide to heaven. 

6 6 



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POEMS. 275 

A smile of joy o'er thy features passed, 

The smile of a raptured spirit, 
As the beaming glance of its eye was cast 

On the bliss which the just inherit. 

We bore thy clay to the burial earth, 
To the sleep that knows no waking, 

And came to our dreary house and hearth. 
With hearts that were well-nigh breaking. 

Thy wide fields now with the harvest bloom, 

But another hath thy reaping ; 
For the hand that scattered the seed, yon tomb, 

Holds fast in her icy keeping. 

Sleep, father, sleep in thy narrow home, 
With the silent dead about thee, — 

We onward still through the bleak world roam, 
Alas ! for we are without thee ! 




O o 



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276 POEMS. 



CHRIST IS LEPT. 



Let the winds of sorrow blow 

Roughly o'er this track of mine, 
Let the fount of grief o'erfiow, 

Hope's sweet star forbear to shine. 
Though of every comfort shorn, 

Though of every joy bereft ; 
Weak, defenceless, and forlorn, — 

I am rich — if Christ is left. 



Let the spoiler's ruthless blow 

Sunder all my cherished ties, 
Let affection bend in ■woe. 

Where the last, the dearest lies ; 
Clinging to each shattered shrine, 

Of its idol sweet bereft. 
Never can my soul repine, 

While it grieves — if Christ is left. 



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POEMS. 277 

Let the changing world forsake, 

On me heap its cruel scorn, 
Peace within the load shall make 

Light and easy to be borne ; 
Lo ! a friend of peerless worth 

Cheers my lonely heart bereft, 
For the faithless ones of earth 

Falls no tear, if Christ is left. 



Earthly treasures, hopes and joys, 

Ye may leave me if ye will ; 
'Mid the wrecks where time destroys, 

I am rich in Jesus still. 
E'en when death's keen pangs shall wring 

This weak frame of life bereft, 
Joyful still my soul shall sing, 

All is mine, for Christ is left ! 




O O 



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278 



POEMS 



'FOR HERE WE HAYE W CONTINUING CITY/ 



Up ! weary pilgrim, tip ! and take 

Thy staff and travel on, 
Earth is no resting place for thee, 

For thou art not her son. 
Then sigh not o'er her ruined hopes, 

Shed not one bitter tear, 
Thy all is centered in the skies, 

Thou hast no city here. 

Let fleeting wealth for others spread 

Her vain, delusive snares, 
Be thou not tempted by her charms, 

Or burdened by her cares ; 
Her treasures fly on eagle wings, 

As adverse fortunes frown, 
O ! win them not to mourn their flight, 

And weep their brief renown. 

What though the world may pass thee by 

In cold and cruel scorn ? 
What though the storms of life beat harsh 

Upon thy head forlorn ? 



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POEMS. 279 

Soon from thy Master's searcliing glance 

Shall earth's proud children fly, 
And soon the glorious rest of Heaven 

Shall sweetly meet thine eye. 

Thy Master ! ah ! when here he toiled, 

When here, for man he bled ; 
No palace doors were open flung, 

No costly feasts w^ere spread ; 
A manger was his cradle couch, 

A weary life his doom, 
A torturing cross his dying bed, 

A borrowed rock his tomb. 

His fare was e'er the poor man's fare, 

His cot the poor man's cot. 
He had no realms, no city here, 

He asked, he sought them not ; 
O ! pilgrim follower, cheer thy heart, 

And wipe thy streaming eye, 
Beyond, beyond this heartless world 

Thy realms and city lie. 

That city is no earthly one, 

It bears no stains of sin. 
And earthly pomp, and earthly pride 

Shall never enter in ; 
There poverty's cold, crushing rain 

Shall never, never fall. 
Nor want, nor woe, nor wild despair 

E'er spread their fearful pall, 

O O 



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280 



POEMS 



Night folds not there her ebon wings, 

For night is all unknown, 
And moon, and snn, for in the midst 

Is God's eternal throne ; 
And from the face of Him who sits 

High on the sacred seat. 
Celestial glories ceaseless beam 

And light each shining street. 

Then closer draAV thy mantle's folds. 

And tarry not below, 
Fill high thy cup at Shiloh's fount 

Where streams reviving flow, 
And boldly face anew the hosts, 

The frowning hosts of clay ; 
Let not the foe o'ertake thee here, 

Up ! weary one ! away ! 

Behold thy city in the skies, 

Behold thy treasures there ; 
The casket that contains them. Faith, 

The key unceasing prayer. 
Soon shall thy spirit upward soar, 

And then, O ! then for thee 
Shall that bright city's golden gates 

Through Christ wide open be ! 



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O Q 

POEMS. 281 



THE SETTING STN. 



Farewell to thee, sweet setting sun, 
Pass from my sight, unwearied one, 
Till heavenly mandates bid thee rise 
Triumphant in the morrow's skies. 

How beautiful the twilight scene ! 
"While darkness shrouds the vales serene ; 
Around the hill's high summit play 
Bright sunbeams lingering on their way. 

Fair Nature, like a weary child, 
No more by sportive day beguiled, 
Rejoicing, welcomes night and rest 
And slumbers on the green earth's breast. 

Ye busy cares of life, retire. 

Ye sordid aims of low desire — 

Give me some calm, some pure retreat 

For prayer and contemplation meet. 

04* 

O '- Q 



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282 



Tlie day is past fore'er — but liow 
Come back its swelling memory now ? 
Does gladness crown each by-gone hour, 
Or silent shame and grief o'erpower? 

O why my soul these rising fears, 
Why dim my eye these starting tears ? 
Alas ! the monitor within 
Remmds of unbelief and sin. 

Of idle words, of misspent time 
In God's pure eyes no trifling crime, 
Of wandering thoughts, of idle dreams. 
And folly's worthless hopes and schemes. 



O, would that every coming eve. 
Sweet setting sun, with me might leave 
A purer, calmer, holier breast. 
And brighter hopes of heavenly rest ! 

And as yon clouds that cluster now 
Around the western mountain's brow, 
Array themselves in golden light 
Reflected from thy miage bright. 

So from the cross, where Jesus died. 
Whence glory flows an endless tide, 
May richer beams my soul illume. 
And gild the night that shrouds the tomb. 



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POEMS. 283 



LOCH LEYEN CASTLE. 



Proud ruin on Locli Leven's stream, 
Whose waters dance with silver gleam, 
Beneath the gentle breezes' sweU, 

That bear upon their downy wing. 
The fragrance of the heather bell, 
On every wild hill blossoming. 

With ivied battlement and tower, 
And remnant rude of kingly power 
Thou standest as in days of yore. 

When pensive Mary,* Scotland's Queen, 
A prisoner on the castled shore, 

Gazed on the lake of sparkling sheen. 

Thy name with her's is woven yet — 
And who shall Mary's name forget, 



* Mary, Queen of Scots, was confined in this castle after her defeat at 
Carberry Hill. 

6 ^ 6 



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284 



POEMS 



Though thou may'st crumble from the view, 
And Leven's waters cease to run, 

Reflecting from their breast of bkie. 
The silver moon and golden sun? 

No warden's fire shall e'er again 

Illume Loch Leven's bosom fair, 
Nor clarion shrill of armored men. 

The breeze across the lake shall bear. 
But while remains a stone of thine, 

It shall be linked to royal fame, 
For there a Rose of Stuart's line, 

Hath left the fragrance of her name. 




O- 



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POEMS. 285 



CHRIST IS PRECIOUS. 



Christ is precious ! O my soul, 
Is he not to thee most dear, 
Dost thou not his sweet control 

Love to feel around thee here ? 
Art thou burdened with thy fears ? 

He can every fear allay, 

Dost thou shed the mourner's tears ? 

He can wipe those tears away. 



Christ is precious — yes, when pain 

Kacks tlais feeble frame of mine, 
And my spirit would complain, 

Murmur at the will divine ; 
Then is my Redeemer nigh 

To uphold me from despair, 
Gently hush each rising sigh. 

Aid me every pang to bear. 



o o 



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286 POEMS. 

Clirist is precious — 't is his blood 

On tlie cross for sinners spilt, 
Saves me from the wrath of God, 

Fearful punishment of guilt. 
And when I in death lie down, 

Joyful at his high command, 
He shall my salvation crown 

Glorious, at his own right hand. 



Christ is precious — he forsakes 

None who love to do his will, 
All their streams of joy he makes 

Sweeter, purer, deeper still. 
Every grief he softly soothes. 

Aids in every trial given. 
And the rugged pathway smooths 

Till the pilgrim enters heaven. 



Christ is precious — if in life. 

He is so my soul, to thee, 
"What, in thy last mortal strife. 

Shall the dear Redeemer be ? 
Hark! an answer from the grave, 

Hear the dying Christian sing, 
' Through his might who died to save 

Death has lost his fearful sting ! ' 



O O 



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POEMS. 287 



'I AM THE LORD THAT HEALETH THEE.' 



My spirit ■writhed beneath the smart 
Of faitliless friendship's keenest dart, 
And o'er a wreath I bent to mourn 
What love had twined deceit had torn, 
There came a heavenly voice to me, 
' I am the Lord that healeth thee.' 



My feet had trod the paths of sin 

And sought a worthless prize to win. 

But when the glittering gift I grasped, 

A cruel thorn concealed I clasped. 

That same kind voice brought peace to me, 

I am the Lord that healeth thee.' 



O -o 



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288 



In agony my soul was bowed 
O'er one who slumbered in the shroud, 
And tears I would not, could not, stay. 
Fell fast upon the breathless clay, 
Again came that blest voice to me, 
' I am the Lord that healeth thee,' 



O thou, whose never failing balm 
The spirit's grief alone can calm. 
When earthly scenes to me grow dim, 
And death's keen anguish racks each limb, 
May these sweet accents set me free, 
' I am the Lord that healeth thee.' 




o- 



-O 



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POEMS. 289 



THE RIGHTEOUS DEAD. 



Weep not, weep not the righteous dead, 

Released from every ill. 
But let thy tears be freely shed 
For those who yet to earth are wed, 

Who sin and suifer still. 
But when the joyful Christian dies. 
When pale and changed his body hes, 
And round his sable bier ye come 
To take the clay unconscious home, 
Hush every sob, check every sigh, 
Blest are the dead in Christ who die. 
Let not a tear thine eyelids steep, 
' He giveth his beloved sleep ! ' 



O — O 



o- 



290 



-o 



POEMS 



MUSIC OF THE SEA. 



I LOVE tlie sound ! I love the sound ! 

The music of the sea ; 
The murm'ring of the mighty waves 

That sweep so wild and free. 

I love it best ! I love it best 

Amid the gathering storm, 
When lurid lightning's wreathe with flame 

The quivering vessel's form. 

I love it when the gloomy cloud 

The fiery bolt has riven, 
And the deep sea reechoes back 

The voice of God from heaven. 

When wildly on the rocky shore 

The foaming billows leap. 
And with a hoarse and sullen roar 

E-olls on the troubled deep. 



o- 



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POEMS. 291 



STANZAS 



If the eagle spread not wide his wings, 
In his flight shall be no fieetness — 

If the minstrel feel not what she sings, 
In her lay shall be no sweetness. 

If the heart be light the song is free, 
With a tone of gladness given, 

If the soul be sad, the harp shall be 
Till its joyless strings are riven. 




O O 



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292 



IINES WRITTEN ON LEAYING EUROPE. 



I 'at. pining for the birds and flowers 

Around my native home ; 
I 'm pining for the wild-wood bowers 

Through w^hich I loved to roam ; 
And for the gentle summer breeze 

That brought the earnest words 
I fancied in the hum of bees, 

And silver sons: of birds. 



I'm pining for the old green hill 

That rises high and grand, — 
The soil my father used to till 

With rough but honest hand ; 
And for a dear, a hallowed spot. 

Beyond the rolling wave. 
My spirit never hath forgot, — 

I 'm pining for his grave I 



o- 



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POEMS. 293 

I 'm pining for my riiotlier's smile, 

And for lier gentle voice, — 
The little ones, whose sportive wile 

Oft made my heart rejoice ; 
A sister's welcome, warm and true, 

A brother's greeting hand. 
And all the dear old friends I knew 

When in my native land. 



I've gazed on Scotia's heathered hills, 

In purple bloom arrayed, — 
Her lakes of blue, her silver rills, 

Her bard hath lovelier made ; 
I've traversed Erin's emerald isle, 

So beautiful, so fair, — 
The contrast of her woe the while 

My spirit ill could bear. 



I 've gazed on England's pomp and power, 

Her cities Icnown to fame, 
Where palace proud and lofty tower 

Bear high and royal name ; 
• And on that land of many lays, 

The sunny land of France, 
Where peasants in the harvest days 

Upon the red grapes dance. 



Q Q 



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294 



But O, not Scotia, fresh and fair, 

Not Erin, fairer still, 
Nor England, with her riches rare, 

Nor France, with vine-clad hill. 
Have aught so lovely and so grand, 

So beantifnl and wild. 
As thou, my own, my native land, — 

Thou ! nature's fairest child ! 



O, let me cross the swelling main, 

And fondly gaze on thee. 
Where nobler, purer virtues reign, 

And men in mind are free ; 
Where honest worth no haughty son 

Of rank can trample down. 
Nor thousands toil in want, that on6 

May wear a royal crown. 




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POEMS. 295 



M. S. L. 



Sweet Mary, round the early tomb, 

"Which thou wert called to fill, 
In sunny summer's opening bloom, 

Our hearts are lingering still. 
Our longing spirits fondly chng 

To thee, their treasure fled ; 
O ! it is hard aside to fling 

The image of the dead. 



Though fleeting time hath rolled away. 

With many a sigh and tear, 
It seemeth only yesterday. 

Since we beheld thee here ; 
And that to-morrow thou wilt come, 

As in those days gone by, 
The sunlight of our happy home, 

Too bright to fade and die. 



o- O 



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296 POEMS. 

We cannot feel that thou hast passed, 

The grave's cold depths to till, 
The fearful thought aside we cast. 

And deem thee living still. 
Thy gentle voice and laugh of glee. 

That often here have rung, 
Seem lingering sweetly yet, and free. 

Though hushed upon thy tongue. 



Our little ones are sporting round, 

Before our pensive view, 
But now where once the three were found, 

Alas ! there are but tivo I 
And often in our ears they pour 

Their sad and childish strain, 
' O say, will she we love, no more 

Return to us again ? ' 



They mourn the broken household band, 

The link that bound us all. 
They miss the clasp of thy young hand, 

Thy smile and gentle call ; 
They miss the voice of music sweet 

Which thou didst wake at even, 
For now thou art at Jesus' feet, 

And liast a harp of heaven. 



O O 



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POEMS. 297 

Yes, thou art gone ! but many a trace 

Of thee is lingering still ; 
The robe unworn, the vacant space 

Which thou wert wont to fiU. 
Around the social hearth we come, 

But heavy hearts we bear, 
We cannot make it seem like home, 

For tliou art wanting there. 



But far in yonder world of hght 

A home is now thine own, 
Thy loved companions angels bright 

Wlio gather round the throne. 
There may we all rejoicing meet, 

When our brief life is o'er, 
And swell thy song of triumph sweet, 

Aid part no more, no more ! 




O O 



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-o 



298 



POEMS 



THE MEADOW SPUING- 



How oft when far from our childhood's home 

"Will memory back to its loved scenes roam, 

And paint in the glowing hues of truth 

Our favorite haunts in the days of youth. 

To me she pictures our Meadow Spring 

"Where dipped the swallow her fluttering wing, 

As hovering low o'er the water's brim 

She swiftly seized in her talons slim, 

And bore to the old thatched roof away 

A precious burden of moistened clay. 

I, too, oft over its margin hung, 

My weary form on the soft turf flung. 

Now gazing up in the cloudless sky, 

"Where the sun in his noonday pride rode high. 

Now down on the surface so calm and bright 

Of the spring where quivered the silvery light,' 

That gently stole through the foliage green 

Of the oak that shaded the spot serene. 

And flowers in beauty around it grew, 

The daisy white and the violet blue, 



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POEMS. 299 

And the buttercup bright in whose golden breast 

The hght bee weary was wont to rest. 

The cowsKp, too, and the lily pale, 

Whose fragrance sweetened the passing gale. 

But I loved it best in the balmy hour 

Of the silent eve, when the folded flower 

The cold dew bent to the lowly sod 

That bore it fresh from the hand of God. 

And the beautiful moon her rays would fling 

On the sparkling breast of the crystal spring, 

And I seemed as the soft breeze swept along 

To catch the notes of the fairies' song ; 

The joyful notes of their music sweet 

To the dance they led with their tiny feet. 

But now are those seasons of pleasure o'er, 

The spot I sought I may seek no more ; 

Yet I dwell on its beauties as fresh as ever, — 

Shall the scenes of the world efface them ? Never! 




O O 



O- 



-o 



300 



POEMS 



THE WIDOW'S SON RESTORED. 



The mists of night rolled heavily away, 
Leaving the stately towers and palaces 
Of ancient Nain to glitter in the beams, 
Flung from the chariot of the coming sun. 
The weary sentinel no longer paced 
The lonely street, for busy thousands trod 
The dusty way, seeking their daily toil. 
The hum of the awakened populace 
Grew louder as the slowly opening morn 
Ripened to all the swift activity 
Of bustling day. 

A golden sunbeam pierced 
The narrow casement of a darkened room, 
Where lay the pale yet lovely form of one 
Who, in life's spring-time, had lain down and died. 
He was an only son ; and she who sat 
In speechless woe beside his breatliless clay — 
She was a widow ; death before had torn 
The wreath that love around her heart had twined. 
And now his icy hand from thence had snatched 
Another flower, and where its tendrils once 
Had firmly clasped, her deeply wounded heart 
Was bleeding freely. 



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POEMS. 301 

Soft that sunbeam fell 
Upon the mother and her smitten son ; 
It quivered on his young brow colorless, 
And played around the pale thin lips from whence 
The soul had just departed, till it seemed 
That life's extinguished lamp, kindled again 
For a brief moment in its former shrine. 
Was burning brightly ; but the fickle light 
Left the unconscious clay and wandered on. 
So had the beams of the pale midnight stars 
Looked in upon that couch of death and seen 
Low bending o'er it that fond mother's form, 
Then passed away ; she had outwatched the stars 
And the slow-waning moon, but then she watched 
Her living child, and there was hope that cheered 
E'en to the last, but hope had vanished now; 
Despair had come, and she hung o'er the dead 
While through the silent chamber rung her wail 
Of bitter lamentation. 

O ! must I yield thee up, my boy, 

To death's cold fearful sleep, 
And here beside thy couch no more 

My nightly vigil keep. 
And hail thy waking when the morn 

Gilds city, mount, and plain. 
And thy glad voice saluted me 

Like music's sweetest strain ? 



O : O 



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-o 



302 



POEMS 



I did not dream, ■when long ago 

I clasped thee to my breast. 
And soothed with song and cradle hymn 

Thy "weariness to rest, 
That I should lay thee in the grave, 

My idol, and my pride, 
Ere life's wild thorns had choked thy path, 

Its cares thy spirit tried. 



I did not dream, when first I taught 

Thy infant lips to pray, 
That He might come who soon shall hold 

O'er Judah royal sway ; 
That ere before the mighty king, 

Thy knees with mine had bowed, 
I should be weeping thus for thee, 

Enfolded in the shroud. 



How can I part with thee my boy ! 

How can I part with thee ! 
And pine in solitude and woe, 

For thy return to me ? 
When in this throbbing breast of mine 

Hope's shrine is all destroyed. 
And where it stood alone is left 

A dark and dreary void. 



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POEMS. 303 

And oh ! when thou art borne away 

To shimber in the tomb, 
And none are left to share with me 

My home of deepest gloom, 
How shall I crave thy sunny smile. 

Thy joyous, sweet caress. 
And long in these fond arms of mine, 

Thy cherished form to press ! 



The rose has faded from thy cheek, 

It has forever passed, 
Day after day I watched its hue, 

And marked it fading fast; 
The light of thy dark eye grew dim. 

But ere it closed, it shone 
Methought with that undying light 

That plays around the throne. 



My precious, my beloved one ! 

My first-born and my all ! 
'Tis bitterness for me to veil 

Thy beauty in the pall. 
Thy freshness like the summer flower 

That withers in its glow. 
Woe for the breath that blighted it, 

Woe for the spoiler, woe ! 

6 o 



O — . o 

304 POEMS. 

Now hath he pierced my mourning breast, 

Twice with his ruthless dart, 
And left me thus to writhe beneath 

Its keen and cruel smart : 
And they shall carry thee, my child, 

"Where sleeps thy father now, 
"With paleness on his speechless lip, 

And death upon his brow. 



He will not smile upon thee there 

As he hath often smiled, 
His gentle voice will greet thee not, 

He will not know thee, child ! 
But rest thou with him till the grave 

Holds in her bosom three. 
For, ere the summer harvests fall, 

I shall lie down with thee. 



But God hath called thee, 't was liis will 

To take the gift he gave, 
The spirit to his cherub bands, 

The body to the grave. 
Then go my darling, undefiled, 

To come not back again. 
But O ! for me no more, no more 

Shall there be joy in Nain ! 

O O 



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POEMS. 305 

Then rose that mother and with trembUng hand 
O'er the loved features of her offsprmg drew 
The slu'oiid's white drapery, and went out to still 
The rising murmurs of her heart in prayer, 
Leaving the dead alone. # # # # 

'Twas eventide, 
And gorgeous clouds were clustering brightly round 
The waning sun, when from the city's gates 
A funeral train passed out with tears and sighs. 
A widowed mother mourning for her son, 
Her only son followed the sable bier, 
That men were bearing to the burial earth 
In sad array. 

Toward the city came 
A pilgrim band, and one was in the midst 
"VYlao seenled not of them, though of mortal kin. 
There was a heavenly beauty on his brow, 
His eye was kindled with a purer beam 
Than souls defiled by sin can shed ; he walked 
Among them as a guardian angel guide. 
And from his lips flowed Avisdom, while the hearts 
That drank the inspiring words, burned and con- 
fessed 
The humble stranger godlike and divine. 
The widowed mother, as she passed him by, 
Caught from his pitying eye something of hope 
That checked the tears that filled her own, and yet 
She knew not why ; and as his gentle voice 

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POEMS 



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Fell on her ear, ' Daughter, what aileth thee ? ' 

Her steps she stayed, and with a quivering lip 

And sad imploring eye, replied, ' My son, 

My only son lieth upon the bier ; 

O ! would to God I might have died for him ! ' 

She ceased ; the listening stranger came and stood 

Beside the bier. 

Still was that funeral train. 
Still as the silent grave to which it bore 
The dead, as lifting up the pall he gazed 
On youth and beauty coldly slumbering there. 
The mother clasped her hands, and now her glance 
Fell on the cherished one who knew her not ; 
Now raised, she fixed it on the calm, pure face 
Of the strange being who beside her stood, 
As if to read his spirit's workings there. 
A voice deep-toned, but yet of accents 'sweet. 
Rolled through the wondering ranks that pressed 

around. 
Thrilling each heart as on the straining ear 
Its music fell — ' Young man, arise ! ' 

A change 
Came o'er the dead; the shroud and pall were flung, 
By strong, free hands aside ; the snow white hue 
Vanished from cheek and brow, while o'er them 

stole 
The rose's crimson flush, and from the bier, 
With parted lips and brightly flashing eye 
A living S071 sprang to his mother's arms I 



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307 



THE REPLY OF RUTH TO NAOMI. 



Entreat me not ! entreat me not ! 

I cannot go from thee, 
O ! dreary, dreary is my lot, 

If tliou art not with me. 
Why dost thou ask me ? have I e'er 

Been less to thee than true ? 
I, from whose heart thy image ne'er 

A moment's absence knew. 



Hast thou forgot that age has set 

His seal upon thy brow ? 
Though beauty's traces linger yet 

To show what once wert thou ; 
Thy tottering step, thy trembling hand, 

Thine eyes he dim hath made ? 
How wilt thou reach a stranger land 

"Without thy wonted aid ? 



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I 308 POEMS. 

Hast thou forgotten her who gives 

To thee the strength of youth, 
As thou hast hved for her, who Hves 

For thee, thy faithful Ruth? 
Hast thou forgotten her w^ho sings 

Thy griefs and cares away 
'Till tardy moments spread their wings 

And speed the closing day ? 



Thou shalt not wander forth alone 

To toil, and beg for bread. 
On changeful fortune's bounty thrown, 

While I am richly fed. 
No ! where thou goest I will go, 

Where other mountains rise. 
And other waters darkly flow — 

The world before us lies. 



How could I love the light of home. 

The hearth-stone kindling warm, 
And know that thou wert forced to roam. 

Exposed to every storm ; 
Sleep would not come on wings of peace. 

With wreaths of balmy flowers. 
My soul to seek thee would not cease. 

All through the midnight hours. 



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POEMS. 309 

And where thou livest I will Hve, 

In some wild mountain cave, 
Wliere passing storms a tribute give, 

And gloomy cedars wave. 
The hand that kindly succors thee 

Shall for my wants provide, 
Thy home, tho' rough and rude it be, 

Shall shelter me beside. 



And where thou diest I will die, 

Within our own sweet land. 
Or 'neath a sterner, colder sky. 

Or on a burning sand. 
Together may our fleeting breath. 

To Israel's God be given, 
Together may we sleep in death, 

Together wake in heaven ! 



! let me share thy weight of woe. 
The burden of thy care. 

My heart shall never weary grow, 
Or shrink its load to bear. 

1 cannot, cannot part with thee. 

Above, below the sod ; 
Thy people shall m?/ people be, 
Thy God shall be my God ! 



O : O 



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310 



IF A MAN DIE, SHALL HE LIYE AGAIN? 



O ! TELL me, tell me, glorious sun, 

Thou monarcli of the day, 
When life's swift sands have ceased to run, 

Is here the spirit's stay ? 
Wlien hoary men the reaper death 

Cuts down like ripened grain. 
Say, dies the soul as dies the breath. 

And never hves again ? 



O ! tell me, tell me, evening star, 

Thou brightly glowing fire. 
Art thou no guide to worlds afar 

For those who here expire ? 
When manhood's prime disease consumes. 

And life's sweet hopes are vain, 
Say, if the grave the soul entombs, 

Or lives that soul ao;ain. 



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POEMS. 311 

O I tell me, tell me, bounding stream, 

Thy restless waters still. 
Wake not the early dead, who seem 

Unnumbered graves to fill? 
When youthful beauty blighted Hes 

Beneath the touch of pain. 
Say, if the spirit fades and dies 

To never hve ag-ain. 



O ! tell me, tell me, summer breeze, 

Heed thou my earnest tone, 
While sweeping thro' the greenwood trees 

With low and pensive moan ; 
Say, if the child, whose grassy bed 

Tears wet like April rain, 
Forever slumbers with the dead, 

Or wakes to life again. 



Ye canaot answer. Thou, O ! earth 

A tongue hath never found 
To tell thy sons of second birth. 

Of life with glory crowned ; 
Heaven, heaven alone the promise gives. 

The Christian chants the strain, 
' I know that my Redeemer lives, 

That I shall live again ! ' 



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POEMS 



OUR EARTHLY HOUSE. 



This house of clay ! this house of clay, 

How swiftly o'er it steals 
The mournful shadows of decay, 

When time its ruin seals. 

The storms of life unceasing beat 

Upon the haughty pile, 
And prove its grandeur all as fleet 

As sunset's transient smile. 

Change comes where mortal might defies, 

Her fearful trace to leave, 
And morning's stately mansion lies 

A moulderma; mass at eve. 



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Wealth cannot stay destruction's hand. 

Or bribe him from his toil, 
Or pomp, or pride, or high command 

Deter him from his spoil. 



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POEMS. 313 

Love cannot turn destruction's breath. 

From frames of dust away, 
She pleads, but yet the grasp of death 

Is on the cherished prey. 

Though learning summons art to aid, 

With skill and power sublime, 
Art's boasted prowess yields dismayed 

To mighty change and time. 

O ! frail this house of clay, so dear 

To which we fondly cling, 
Immortal guests it tenants here, 

But 'tis a mortal thing. 

The spirit, born for God, to God 

Shall wing its final flight. 
Its mansion, level with the sod. 

Mould in oblivion's night. 

O ! why, to gild this mortal frame. 

Waste youth, and strength, and bloom, 

When soon its ashes, void of name, 
Shall fill the yawning tomb. 

Ye poor in earth, but rich in heaven, 

Through Christ accounted just. 
Mourn not this wortliless mansion, given 

Back to its kindred dust. 

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314 POEMS. 

Ye have a nobler in the skies, 

Not built by human hands, 
Where everlasting pillars rise, 

The promised dwelling stands, 

Beyond, beyond the burning stars, 
Where reigns the King of Kings, 

No blighting change its beauty mars, 
Decay no shadow flhigs. 

O ! if such glorious mansion Hfts 

Above its head sublime, 
Ye heirs of God's eternal gifts 

Weep not the wrecks of time. 




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POEMS. 315 



INVOCATION. 



Awake ! my harp, in the hours of night, 
Ere the chains of shimber bind thee ! 

Awake ! my harp, and the morn's red hght 
In thine own bright spells shall find thee ! 

The pale moon treads the unclouded sky, 
And a silvery wreath flings o'er thee. 

And nought is heard but the minstrel's sigh, 
Or the brook that flows before thee. 

The rusthng boughs of the pine are still, 

For the fluttering bird is sleeping, 
The voice is hushed of the whip-poor-will. 

In the far wood vigil keeping. 

For silence rides in her noiseless car. 

And the dew of sleep is bringing 
The dew of sleep from her kingdom far. 

O'er the weary world is flinging. 

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316 POEMS. 

The day is past, and I care not now 

For its fitful joy or sorrow, 
Or to read in the lines on Hope's bright brow 

The scenes of the coming morrow. 

Arouse thee now, but awake no sound, 

For the gloomiest and the gravest, 
A pajan bid from thy strings rebound 

For the happiest and the bravest. 

And sing thou not of the pilgrim old 

On his journey sadly sleeping, 
Whose heart is chilled by misfortune cold, 

And whose eye is dimmed by weeping. 

And sing thou not of the warrior cliief, 

On his tented field reposing, 
To-morrow's noon, and the shades of grief 

O'er his home may fast be closing. 

But sweetly tune to the fearless youth. 

Of the future brightly dreaming. 
Whose hopes are clad in the robes of truth, 

With their golden visions teeming. 

Awake ! my harp, in the hours of night, 
Ere the chains of slumber bind thee ! 

Awake ! my harp, and the morn's red light 
In thine own bright spells shall find thee. 

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POEMS. 317 



APELICTION SANCTIFIED. 



On the couch of pain I languish, 

Morn and eve my sorrow see, 
Deep the sorrow, keen the anguish. 

Yet, O ! God they come from thee ; 
Glad I hail them, 

For they tell thou iovest me. 

He whom here on earth thou scourgest 

Is the object of thy love. 
Him from earthly dross thou purgest, 

Purgest for thyself above, 
His affliction 

O'er him broods a heavenly dove. 

Days are long, and sad, and weary. 
Yet thy smiles speed on their flight ; 

Nights are gloomy, dark and dreary. 
Yet thy presence makes them bright. 

Thou art with me. 
Source of life, and joy, and light. 

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318 POEMS. 

When the morn her sunbeams flinging, 
Bathes my couch and sleepless eyes, 

And the night her flight is winging 
With the rest she me denies. 

O'er my spirit, 
Suns of Righteousness arise. 

When the stars of evening brighten 

In their wondrous orbs on high, 
And the moon's soft glories lighten 

Shadowy earth and pensive sky, 
Blessed Jesus, 

Thou with purer beams art nigh. 

When the mists of doubt enfold me, 
Let thy cross above them tower, 

Let thine own right hand uphold me. 
When I feel temptation's power. 

Let thy Spirit 
Aid me in each trying hour. 

If to health and strength, long vanished, 
Thou shalt raise my frame again, 

Bid these weary hours be banished. 

Quell disease and throbbing pain, 

To thy glory, I 

May I live, nor live in vain. 

I 
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POEMS. 319 

If stern death shall soon assail me, 
And the grave her arms spread wide, 

Blessed Saviour ! never fail me, 
Never, for thou too hast died. 

Through the valley, 
Be my guardian and my guide. 

Thus to life, if I am Hving, 

Thine that life whose hand restores, 

Dust to dust, if I am giving, 
Lo ! to thee my spirit soars. 

Joys immortal 
Wait me on celestial shores. 

Reconciled to thy good pleasure. 

Ever may I meekly be. 
By my faith my comforts measure, 

Let me find my all in thee. 
Nought can grieve me 

While thy smiling face I see. 

Up in yonder realm of glory 

Lies the crown the saints receive ; 

E-ich the diadems of story, 
Richer this, their trials weave. 

May I wear it. 
When this weary world I leave. 

O — ■ — O 



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320 



POEMS 



THE ANGELS. 



' Are they not all ministering spirits sent forth to minister to those who 
shall be heirs of salvation?' 



The angels ! the bright angels ! 

O, are they sent to earth 
To minister to those who weep 

The ills of mortal birth ? 
At Jesus' bidding do they leave 

The realms of highest bliss, 
The raptures of the heavenly world 

To soothe the woes of this ? 



And do they come with pitying hearts, 

And words of holy things, 
To cheer the drooping spirit up, 

And plume Hope's broken wings ? 
And softly, sweetly whisper e're 

The fainting spirit dies. 
Of rest beyond this weary world, 

Of mansions in the skies ? 



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POEMS. 321 

And do they smile when mortals smile, 

And weep when mortals weep, 
As burdened hearts pour freely forth 

Grief's waters dark and deep ; 
And from their golden pinions shed 

The gifts of heavenly love 
On those who meekly here have laid 

Their treasures all above ? 



The angels ! the bright angels ! 

Who are the happy throng ? 
The fondly loved, the early lost, 

Whose memory cherished long. 
Still, still is fresh when time rolls back 

His deep and gloomy tide, 
And paints anew the darkened room 

Where youth and beauty died ? 



O, do their spirits, whom we yet 

In silent grief deplore, 
As those who round the social hearth 

Shall gather n^ver more. 
Around us hover all unseen 

And dews of peace distil, 
And fill our souls with strength divine 

To meet each eartlily ill. 

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POEMS 



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The angels ! the bright augels ! 

How beautiful they seem 
"Wliile floating past our vision dim 

In some seraphic dream. 
Earth's fairest children, passing fair, 

With charms that mock decay, 
In all their freshest bloom have far 

Less loveliness than they. 



The seal of purity is set 

Upon each spotless brow, 
That speaks a sinless soul within, 

We bear not with us now ; 
For O, the passion tide that sweeps 

Oft o'er our guilty souls, 
Across the pure and peaceful breasts 

Of angels, never rolls. 



The angels ! the bright angels ! 

Our guardians on life's way. 
Lest in some dangerous path our feet 

In error blindly stray ; 
They tread, celestial messengers. 

The path from earth to heaven, 
Bear up contrition's load of sin 

And bring it back forgiven. 



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POEMS. 323 

They are tlie Christian's guides below, 

His safety and his shield, 
They nerve his arm to strike the blow 

That makes the tempter yield ; 
And when with pleasure's luring charms 

Is spread some fatal snare. 
Angelic voices sound alarms. 

The warning breathe, ' beware ! ' 



They lighten life's oppressive cares 

That else might weigh him down. 
And fill his soul with calm content. 

Though changeful fortunes frown. 
And when upon his couch he lies 

To sleep's embraces given, 
They fold their pinions o'er his breast, 

That he may dream of heaven. 



And when the shades of night disperse, 

And daylight dawns, they bear 
Up to the holy throne of grace 

The Christian's morning prayer ; 
They fan devotion's fire within 

Until it burns anew. 
And love like theirs his spirit warms, 

Love, and compassion too. 



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324 POEMS. 

The angels ! the bright angels ! 

The children of the skies, 
They gather round the sacred spot 

Whene'er the Christian dies. 
And from the martyr's flaming stake, 

Or from the whelming wave, 
Triumphant bear his faithful soul 

Back to the God who gave. 



O, if they thus are ever nigh, 

Unseen, in every hour, 
Me, may they kindly succor, when 

Death makes me feel his power ; 
And may the dearest to his Lord 

With wings of all most fleet. 
My spirit waft, that I may reach 

The sooner Jesus' feet. 



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